


The Power of Song

by Gylaan



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Senki Zesshou Symphogear
Genre: But it was necessary, Canon-Typical Violence, Chris is getting ALL the exposition, Contains Elements from XDU, Contains Suggested Listening, Gen, How Do I Tag, Once I learn how to tag, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Symphogear XV, especially in the first couple chapters, no knowledge of FFXIV required, on a related note, probably, which I'm sorry for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26524861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gylaan/pseuds/Gylaan
Summary: A Gjallarhorn alert is nothing new—they’ve been happening for almost a year now, after all. But Chris has just been forcibly reminded that they can never be called “routine.” Waking up alone in a strange land, she’s given little option but to deal with the cause of the alert on her own. But this “Eorzea” is a land beset with many troubles, from the encroaching Garlean Empire to the mythical primals draining life from the land itself, and fate seems determined to put every one of them in her way.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	1. Loneliness as Dusk Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also being hosted on [SpaceBattles](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/the-power-of-song-symphogear-ffxiv.883511/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this story started with two facts:  
> 1\. In Symphogear, a show about music-powered magical girls, Chris Yukine's weapon turns into a variety of guns and bows  
> 2\. In FFXIV, the archer class evolves into the bard
> 
> It just seemed so perfect.

Chris woke up to scratchy sheets and an unfamiliar ceiling. As she sat up and looked around, the first thing she noticed was that everything was made of wood. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all wooden, the bed she lay on and the small table beside it were made of wood, wooden partitions stood to either side of the bed, even the mattress felt like it might be made of wood. And everything was lit in the soft yellow glow of candlelight. A second look around confirmed that, yes, hanging from the ceiling by lengths of rope, and from the wall near the bed by a metal hook, were glass lanterns encasing merrily glowing candles.

Sliding out of the bed, Chris was relieved to find she was still wearing her own clothes: a pleated blouse a few shades too dark to be called pink, a pair of tight, pale yellow shorts, and white kneesocks. Her white hair was a little messy from being slept on, but still in her signature twintails that refused to cohere past ten centimeters. A quick check as she put her shoes on (dark red pumps, considerately left beside the bed) revealed that Ichaival, in pendant form, still hung from her neck.

Stepping away from the bed revealed that it was the second in a row of five, with a (of course) wooden door set in the closer wall and a narrow window in the further one, looking out onto a wooded area.

“Where the heck did it send us this time?” Chris muttered, looking over the empty beds. “And where is Senpai?” She remembered the Gjallarhorn alert, smaller than usual, so the Commander sent just her and Tsubasa. There was a vague but distinct sense of something being _off_ as they went through the portal, and then… nothing. She absently ran her fingers along her pendant as she recalled—and then she felt it.

A flaw, an imperfection in its crystalline surface that wasn’t there before. She removed it from her shirt to examine it visually, and immediately spotted it. An ugly crack down its crimson length, marring its face. It reminded her of Maria’s Airgetlám, before Elfnein fixed it up. For Chris, there was only one appropriate response.

“ _Shit!_ ”

Without her Symphogear, she was basically helpless against whatever was causing the alert, and any Noise it happened to attract. On top of that, since the Gjallarhorn portal reacted to relics, the damage might prevent her from using it to get back to headquarters for repairs—assuming she could even find it in the first place.

It was while she was ruminating on this that the door opened, admitting a tan-skinned man in a plain blue robe, with a neatly-trimmed beard adorning his square jaw, matching his short, black hair, and surprise clear on his face. “Oh, you’re up,” he said.

Though he spoke no language Chris was familiar with, she understood it as though it were English—that is to say, well enough to hold a conversation, but she’d never be mistaken for a native speaker. _Is it because the Curse of Balal is gone?_ Chris wondered.

The robed man continued speaking, ignorant of Chris’s thoughts. “Your aether was in a curious state of flux when you were brought here, so we didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

_My what?_ Chris thought. Aloud, she said, “So how’d I wind up here?”

“A Wood Wailer on patrol found you unconscious near the Guardian Tree and brought you back to Gridania when he couldn’t rouse you.”

Chris nodded slowly, in the very particular way one does when one understands precisely nothing.

The man, in what was rapidly becoming a trend, utterly failed to notice her lack of comprehension, and continued speaking. “And perhaps it’s not my business, but what were you doing all alone out in the woods?”

“Long story,” Chris evaded, “but the short version is that I’ll need to go back there.”

“Oh,” said the man, “are you missing personal effects?”

Chris frowned, not really wanting to lie to the man, but not wanting to tell him anything until she knew more, either. “Something like that,” she said. “Unless you happen to have a blue-haired girl with more issues than _Jump Weekly_ hanging around somewhere?”

The bearded man took a moment to piece together her meaning, mouthing “Jump Weekly” with great confusion. “Ah, er, no, you’re the only one who was brought in,” he said. “But more to the point, I cannot in good conscience allow you to go off on your own! The Twelveswood has never been _safe_ , and it’s only become more dangerous since the Calamity.”

Chris wanted to snap at him that she’s not some helpless little girl who needs to be protected, but held herself back. “Well I’m gonna need the guy who found me to show me the spot,” she pointed out. “Besides, I’m not some helpless little girl who needs to be protected!”

Okay, she _almost_ held herself back.

At least she didn’t snap at him.

Surprisingly, the man actually seemed to brighten up at that. “Oh!” he said. “Are you an adventurer, then?”

Chris thought about that. In the first place, “adventurer” was apparently a legitimate and, from the man’s tone, fairly well-respected profession in this world, but Chris could think about the implications of that later. As to her answer…

She’s gone all around the world, to multiple _parallel_ worlds, and even been to the moon and back. “Yeah, you could say that.” _If you wanted to massively understate it_ , she didn’t add.

“In that case,” the man said brightly, “you should register with the Adventurers’ Guild! They can help get you…” He paused as he rather conspicuously looked her over. “… Equipped, and such. You’ll want to speak with Mother Miounne at the Carline Canopy.”

“Okay,” Chris said uncertainly, “where is that?”

Getting directions from the man turned out to be easy. Actually _following_ them, however, was an entirely different sort of ordeal.

The city (and Chris used the term _very_ loosely) was laid out rather haphazardly, with roads winding around and between cliffs and enormous trees, leaving the squat—and frequently near-identical—wooden buildings to take up what space was left. It would also help if she weren’t so distracted by the people.

And good lord, the _people_. Between living in Tokyo and her worldly travels, Chris thought she had a pretty good appreciation for how diverse people could be. But the sheer variety of shapes and colors on display had her struggling not to gawk openly. Tall people with pointed ears, short people with cat ears (and tails!), men two meters tall with meter-wide shoulders in all manner of skin colors, people barely a meter tall that she initially mistook for children.

Their clothes, too, were unlike anything she’d seen outside of museums or period pieces. Most wore very plain clothes—tunics and pants were common—in solid colors, with maybe some decorative bits sewn on. A fair few wore robes of some description, and many also carried what seemed to be a staff or wand, as if they were some kind of wizard. But even if the style (or lack thereof) was strange, they were still clothes.

Which made the _armor_ stand out all the more. Leather seemed to be the most common sort, with many people so clad carrying spears or bows, but she also spotted a number wearing chainmail or plate armor, carrying axes or swords and shields.

Chris was no stranger to the battlefield, and had worked alongside the SDF or UN forces on several occasions, but seeing weapons carried so openly, and by so many people… It reminded her uncomfortably of Val Verde.

One of the cat-eared men (unarmed, thankfully) actually caught her staring. “Wossa matter?” he said, somehow managing to come off as a mix of teasing and confrontational. “Ye look like ye’ve never seen a Miqo’te afore.”

“Uh, yeah,” Chris said, committing the word to her memory, “they’re not real common where I’m from.” Nonexistent counted as uncommon, right?

The man—Miqo’te, Chris had to get used to the word—raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Must be a ways off, if ye’ve not got Roegadyn neither,” he said, but in a way that suggested he wasn’t going to pry. “Well, since I’m feelin’ nice, and you look like ye need it, I’m gonna give ye a quick lesson.”

He pointed at a pair across the road, one of the impossibly tiny people conversing with a pointed-eared woman. “The little one’s a Lalafell,” he said. “They’re near always workin’ some angle or other, but they’re a friendly bunch. The tall ‘un with the ears is an Elezen. Big on tradition, that lot, but they’ve a knack for keeping things running. And the big burly fellows,” he pointed at a convenient passerby, “are Roegadyn. The women ain’t quite as… broad,” he mimed having enormously wide shoulders, “but no less fierce.

“And in case they’re called somethin’ different in Faraway Land,” he said, turning back to Chris with a grin, “yer folk’re called Hyurs around these parts.”

_Lalafell, Miqo’te, Hyur, Elezen, Roegadyn._ Chris mentally repeated the names of the… races, she supposed, from shortest to tallest. “Got it,” she said with a grateful nod. “Thanks.”

She also managed to get further directions from him, and arrived at the Carline Canopy without further incident (though she did boggle a little at the enormous crystal spinning lazily in what he called the “aetheryte plaza”).

The building itself had one end nestled into the cliff face, and was among the larger ones she’d seen here. It was, as seemed typical, made of wood, but also had colorful stained-glass windows set in the roof. Beneath the overhang was a man throwing a saddle on an enormous yellow bird.

As Chris walked down the slope towards the entrance, catching sight of a lake at the bottom of the cliff, faint [music](https://youtu.be/VSKNntvdRJk) and the murmur of countless overlapping conversations drifted out. As she stepped across the threshold, the noise seemed to double in intensity, and Chris took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the lower light and look around.

The first thing she noticed was the lamps hanging from the rafters, which was starting to seem like a staple of Gridanian architecture. Beneath them, tables were scattered about the wide-open room, most with a few patrons eating, drinking, or simply chatting, and a few servers walked between them. Against the wall opposite the entrance were three counters, each seeming to serve a different purpose. Behind the rightmost one, marked with a candlestick, an Elezen man sat reading, and on the wall behind him were numerous keys hanging from hooks. The one in the middle was decorated with glowing blue crystals and was manned by an elderly Elezen in a green coat and beret while his similarly-clad Hyuran assistant flipped through a massive filing cabinet. And the left-hand desk, marked with a goblet, housed an Elezen woman in a long green tunic, who stood in front of what looked like a card catalog. Continuing to the left, the curved southern wall of the building was taken up almost entirely by large windows letting in the midday light. Chris also caught a glimpse of a staircase going down.

Letting her gaze slide back to the right, she saw a doorway leading to another part of the building—inn rooms, if she was interpreting the candlestick sign correctly—and a kitchen area, separated from the main floor by a bar counter. More immediately to her right was the group of musicians that she had heard from outside.

Chris began walking towards the goblet-marked desk, as she had been instructed, and the woman behind it—“Mother” Miounne, presumably—gave her an appraising look as she approached.

Chris could also make out more details of her appearance as she drew closer. The tunic she’d noticed initially was actually worn over a long-sleeved brown shirt, and had a long brown vest over top of it. Her chin-length, dark grey hair framed a narrow, pale face lightly touched by makeup.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the woman said. “You carry yourself like a seasoned adventurer, but you certainly aren’t equipped like one.”

Chris frowned a little at the implied question. “Yeah, long story short, my stuff isn’t really usable right now.” She had to force herself not to fidget with her pendant.

“And someone told you the Adventurers’ Guild could get you new equipment, did they?” Miounne said with a sigh. “While we _do_ offer a small seed fund of sorts for those that need it, we’d much rather adventurers pay for their own equipment if they’re able, so we don’t advertise it overmuch.” She gave Chris a pointed look.

Chris, for her part, was suddenly very glad her shorts had pockets, even if they were barely large enough to be useful, and fetched her coinpurse from it. “I have some money,” she said as she opened it, “but I don’t know if it’ll be accepted here.” With that, she dumped a small handful of change onto the counter.

Miounne picked up one of the coins for a closer look. “Well, it’s no coinage I’m familiar with,” she said, “and I see more varieties than most in this city. But you might be able to sell them as ‘foreign curiosities’ to some wealthy collector if adventuring doesn’t work out.” She set it back down on the counter, and Chris swept the coins back into her purse. “But if your course is set…?”

Chris nodded firmly. “There’s things I have to do, and this is looking like the only way to do them.”

Miounne returned the nod understandingly. “Then I’d best give you some idea of what you’re getting into,” she said. “To an outsider's eyes, all may seem well with our nation, but naught could be further from the truth. The people live in a state of constant apprehension.

“The Ixal and various gangs of common bandits provide an unending supply of trouble—trouble compounded by the ever-present threat of the Garlean Empire to the north. And that is to say nothing of the Calamity...”

“About that,” Chris interrupted. “I’m not from around here, so I don’t actually know what that is.”

“Ah, forgive me,” Miounne said. “Five years past, Eorzea was well-nigh laid to waste when a dread wyrm emerged from within the lesser moon, Dalamud, and rained fire upon the realm. It is this which people call ‘the Calamity.’”

_“Lesser” moon?_ Chris thought incredulously. _They used to have_ two _moons?_

If Miounne noticed her reaction, she didn’t comment. “Scarcely a square malm of the Twelveswood was spared the devastation,” she continued. “Yet despite the forest's extensive wounds, not a soul among us can recall precisely how it all happened.”

This time, Chris couldn’t contain her thoughts. “Really? No one?”

“I am well aware of how improbable that must sound to an outsider,” Miounne conceded. “It _is_ improbable. But it's also true. For reasons we can ill explain, the facts surrounding the Calamity are shrouded in mystery. There are as many versions of events as there are people willing to recount them.

“Yet amidst the hazy recollections and conflicting accounts,” Miounne’s voice took on a note of wonder, “all agree on one thing: that Eorzea was saved from certain doom by a band of valiant adventurers. Whatever else we've misremembered, none of us have forgotten the heroes who risked life and limb for the sake of the realm. And yet...whenever we try to say their names, the words die upon our lips. And whenever we try to call their faces to mind, we see naught but silhouettes amidst a blinding glare. Thus have these adventurers come to be known as ‘the Warriors of Light.’”

Chris listened to the tale thoughtfully. It was, as Miounne said, improbable… but on reflection, no less unbelievable than some of the things Chris had been involved in. Then again, was it more likely for a moon to contain a dragon, or a facility designed to block knowledge of the universal language?

Miounne coughed into her fist, breaking Chris out of her reverie. “Pray do not feel daunted by the deeds of legends,” she said. “We do not ask that you become another Warrior of Light, only that you do what you can to assist the people of Gridania.”

Chris waved her off. “Don’t worry about it. The way things go, I’m probably gonna get dragged into something on that scale anyway.”

Miounne chuckled good-naturedly. “Well I suppose if someone must, best it be someone who’s used to it,” she said. “Now, all that’s left is to conclude the business of registration. Here's a quill. Scrawl your name right _there_.” She gestured at an open book on the counter between them.

Chris accepted the quill hesitantly. “That’s it?” she asked skeptically. “Just, put my name down and we’re done?”

“That’s it,” Miounne confirmed. “I’ll of course be sharing your description with the Guilds in other cities, but we really haven’t much use for any other information.”

Chris hummed thoughtfully as she turned her attention to the book. It was a thick tome, and the page it was open to was nearly filled with line after line of… names, she supposed, of other adventurers. Cynara Winters, Zyrrkinoth Deresnels, Yulala Yula, Khona’to Nelhah, Majestic Hill. A dozen more, all deciphered, she could only assume, by the same means that allowed her to understand the spoken language. It was a good thing, too, because otherwise Chris had no idea how she was going to write her name in a way Miounne could read it.

When she finished, Miounne turned the book to read it properly. “Chris… Yukine? Am I saying that right?” At Chris’s nod, she continued. “Well then, from this moment forward, you are a registered adventurer of Gridania. Now,” she clapped her hands together, “let’s discuss next steps, shall we?”

“Right,” Chris agreed, “I don’t know where to get everything I’m going to need.”

“Even before that,” Miounne said, “there are two—actually, what sort of weapon do you use?”

Chris was a little caught off-guard by the sudden change of topic. “Uh, a bow, I guess?” She hadn’t seen any guns on her walk through the city, which suggested they were either tightly controlled or very rare, if they existed at all.

Miounne nodded. “Yes, two places I would have you visit before the markets. First is the aetheryte.”

“The giant floating crystal just up the hill?” Chris asked with a confused gesture.

“Just so,” Miounne confirmed. “It is in fact a device that enables instantaneous transportation, which I’m sure I needn’t tell you is invaluable to the ever-wandering adventurer.”

A small part of Chris’s brain wondered if she should really be so surprised by that after seeing the teleport crystals alchemists of her world seemed so fond of.

“All you need to do,” Miounne continued, “is touch its surface. A member of the Wood Wailers will be present to offer further instruction.”

“Touch the giant crystal, okay,” Chris confirmed.

“Your second destination,” Miounne went on, “should be the Archers’ Guild. Even if you’ve plenty of experience, they may yet have a few tricks to teach you—and if not, there are other benefits to joining, though I can’t speak to the specifics.

“The markets should wait until after you’ve done that. Which reminds me.” The woman ducked down to retrieve something from behind the counter and came back up holding a small, slightly jingly pouch. “There should be enough in there to get you some basic provisions,” she said, handing it over.

Chris accepted it gratefully and tucked it into her pocket. “So aetheryte, Archers’ Guild, markets,” she repeated. “Got it.”

“And of course,” Miounne said, “do not hesitate to come ask me if you need any specific advice. I may not always have the information you need, but I can usually point you to someone who does.”

“Will do,” Chris said with a nod.

With that, funds in hand and destination set, Chris left the tavern, taking what many would call the first steps on her latest adventure.

She had only the faintest inkling that it would be a much grander one than she was used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: More exposition and getting equipped
> 
> Big thanks to the folks who let me name-drop their characters!  
> Cynara Winters is borrowed from my good friend @[scatteredstoryteller](https://scatteredstoryteller.tumblr.com/) on tumblr  
> Zyrrkinoth Deresnels belongs to @[lightwithnomemory](http://lightwithnomemory.tumblr.com/), also on tumblr  
> The rest I had to come up with myself, because I guess no one saw me asking? Might open that up again later for a kind of "special edition" or something.


	2. There's a Big Sale on Bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress on chapter 3 has been slower than I'd like for a number of reasons (it's currently something like two-thirds done), but I was getting tired of just sitting on this, so here it is.
> 
> I've also figured out my gimmick for chapter titles! Though I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep it up... Anyway, I've got an Internet Cookie for the first person to figure out what it is!

Exiting the Carline Canopy, Chris walked back up the slope to the aetheryte plaza and approached the massive crystal hovering in the center of a large wooden deck standing above a shallow pool. It was a fairly crowded area, with people bustling this way and that, or just loitering around, but not so crowded that she needed to push past anyone.

And then she was next to it, looking up at the towering, glowing mass, then uncertainly down at her hand. _Miounne said I just need to touch it_ , she thought, reaching out to do just that.

Sensation.

Opening.

C O N N E C T I O N

Chris jerked back in shock, her heart racing. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t _that_. That had been unlike anything she’d experienced before. The closest comparison she could draw was the first time she activated Ichaival, but even that was an entirely different experience.

“My,” someone said beside her, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone react like _that_.”

Chris turned to see a dark-haired Hyuran woman a handful of centimeters taller than her wearing a mask over her eyes and green-and-brown leathers, a spear strapped to her back. “And you are…?”

“I am Nicia of the Wood Wailers,” the woman replied, “and I’m here to answer any questions new adventurers such as yourself have about aetherytes and their uses.”

“Well that’s convenient,” Chris said, “because I’ve got a couple.”

“By all means, then, ask away,” Nicia replied.

“Miounne mentioned that they’re used for transportation,” Chris said, “but, uh, how, exactly?” Because she was pretty sure they didn’t work the same way as the single-use teleport crystals she’d seen alchemists on her world use.

“Well,” Nicia said, “before one might understand aetherial travel, one must first understand the substance that makes it possible—aether.”

 _That word again_ , Chris thought. “Which is…?” she prompted.

It was difficult to read the Wood Wailer with the mask she wore, but Chris got a distinct sense of incredulity from her. “Why, only the source of all being!” she exclaimed. “Though it cannot be seen, it is everywhere... or should I say, it is every _thing_. Aether flows around us and within us, and without it we would cease to exist.”

 _Sounds like that Star Wars thing_ , Chris thought, not entirely buying it.

“When we die,” Nicia continued explaining, “it is believed that the shock separates our spirits from our corporal forms. Our bodies are then broken down and are absorbed back into the aetherial river, while the soul is left to journey to its final destination in the afterlife. Some call this ‘returning to the Lifestream.’ However, our ancestors discovered ways in which, through meditation and focus of spiritual energies, one could reduce her body to aether without losing the grip on her soul, in turn allowing us to travel upon the Lifestream. These methods have been given the names Return and Teleport.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris said. “And how does the aetheryte fit into this?”

“It is said,” the Wood Wailer explained, “that aetheryte is the solid manifestation of the planet's lifeblood, aether, and that by touching it, the aether which makes up our bodies resonates with that contained in the crystal.”

“And that resonation can be used as a kind of tether or something?” Chris guessed.

“Exactly!” Nicia said excitedly. “The aetheryte assures that the body, in its aetherial form, is not lost to the pull of the greater flow. Normally, when one's body is reduced to aether, it will naturally gravitate to the location with which it resonates the greatest—or one’s ‘home point.’ But, because signatures of past attunements are maintained within our bodies, it is possible—with some spiritual training, of course—to ignore the pull back to the strongest resonation, and travel to another beacon. It should thus go without saying that any adventurer worthy of the name will wish to seek out and attune herself to each one.”

“Handy,” said Chris. “It’s enough to make you wonder why anyone walks anywhere.”

“Well,” Nicia began, “even had we the resources to put an aetheryte in every town and settlement, one would still need to make the initial journey to attune to it. That aside, many people simply don’t need to travel frequently, while others lack the aptitude for Teleportation. Further, if one is transporting a large quantity of goods, it’s often easier and less expensive to hire one man with a wagon than ten men who can Teleport.”

“And what’s stopping them from making multiple trips?” Chris asked.

“Well you see,” Nicia explained, “Teleportation requires a great deal of spiritual energy known as ‘anima’ to fight the natural flow of the Lifestream and guide one's body and soul to a comparatively weak aetherial beacon. While anima is typically restored quickly enough to allow for regular travel, many cannot make more than one jump in a day, if even that.”

“And Return only takes you back to your home point,” Chris realized, “so even if it’s easier, it can’t do that kind of back-and-forth travel.”

“Exactly and precisely,” Nicia confirmed with a smile. “Have you any other questions for me?”

“Actually, yeah,” Chris said, “directions would be nice.”

“Of course,” Nicia said. “I’m sure Mother Miounne gave you all manner of tasks around the city. Where are you headed next?”

“Archers’ Guild,” Chris said, “then the markets.”

“Simple enough,” said Nicia. “You see that path there?” She pointed behind Chris and to her right, who turned and nodded. “It’s difficult to see from here, but there’s a side passage that leads to Quiver’s Hold, while following the main path will take you to the Ebony and Rosewood Stalls.”

“Great, thanks,” Chris said, already leaving.

The side passage in question turned out to be a narrow and uneven gap between two cliffs, barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side. Before long, though, it opened out into a clearing with a long slope, dotted with targets, leading down into another lake at the opposite end. At the top of the slope and to the left, yet another wooden building stood, two stories high, though the first seemed to be extra-tall. A wide porch extended out from in front of the entrance, and above the stairs up to it hung what Chris could only guess was supposed to be some kind of massive bow. A covered balcony jutted out from the second floor, and the whole building was roofed in bright red… wait, were those _flowers_?

Shaking her head as she stepped inside, the first thing Chris saw was another enormous decorative bow hanging on the wall. More reasonably sized bows were mounted on plaques to either side of it. To the right was a doorway leading further into the building, and a desk, behind which sat a blonde Hyuran woman, who looked up at Chris’s entrance.

“Greetings, friend,” she said. “You have found your way to the Archers’ Guild.”

“Gee,” drawled Chris, not taking her eyes off the absurd wall mounting even as she turned, “I never would’ve guessed.”

The woman followed her gaze and chuckled shyly. “I suppose we do make it rather obvious,” she said. “Anyroad, I am Athelyna, the Guild’s receptionist. Have you come to learn the way of the bow?”

Chris shrugged. “I like to think I know it pretty well already,” she said, “but Miounne suggested I join up anyway.”

“Ah, of course,” Athelyna said with an understanding nod. “Always room for improvement, after all. And the best motivation is skilled competition; such is the way of the guild. And you’ll find no competition more skilled than here!”

“Okay,” said Chris, “so where do I sign up?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak with the guildmaster first,” Athelyna said. “New enlistments require her approval, you see.”

Chris let out a heavy sigh but nodded understandingly. “Yeah, that makes sense,” she said. “Where’s she at, then?”

“Right this way,” the receptionist said as she stood.

She led Chris into the next room, which was dominated by a raised training stage. Targets lined the far wall, except for where it gave way to a stairway leading up into another room. A pair of archers, one Hyur and one Elezen, stood firing at targets, while a few others watched appraisingly.

Athelyna led her to a tall, dark-skinned Elezen woman with chin-length white hair who stood watch over the room. She wore a blue tunic trimmed in white with additional leather padding over her left breast and shoulder, ornate leather bracers, and thick leather thighboots. The bow hanging from her back was nearly as long as the woman was tall, and seemed to be made from interlocked chitinous plates rather than a length of wood.

The receptionist approached her and said a few hushed words, to which the taller woman nodded and turned towards Chris, looking her up and down.

Chris felt the weight of the world in that stare. She couldn’t shake the feeling that, in one simple glance, this woman learned more about her than she could share in a year’s worth of words.

“Greetings, adventurer,” she said, her voice a smooth contralto. “I am told you wish to join our ranks.”

“Uh, yeah,” Chris said. “Chris Yukine.”

“Well met, Chris,” the guildmaster said with a nod. “I am Luciane, the master of the Archers' Guild.” She looked Chris up and down again, but it didn’t have the same weight behind it, even seeming almost for show. “I can tell I needn’t expound upon the virtues of the bow to you, nor upon the dedication it demands. In short, I’ve no complaints about your joining the guild.”

“I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ coming,” Chris said, her eyes narrowing.

“But,” Luciane continued with a slight nod, “for formality’s sake, I would have you demonstrate your skill. Ten shots at one of these targets should suffice.”

“Slight problem with that,” Chris pointed out, “I don’t have a bow.”

“That’s remedied easily enough,” Luciane said smoothly. “F’mibhas!” she called out.

“A-ah, yes, ma’am!” a startled voice from the doorway returned. A glance revealed a sandy-haired Miqo’te girl who must have just walked in.

“Fetch this girl a bow, will you?” Luciane instructed, eyes still locked with Chris’s. “Something long, I think, with a good draw weight to it.”

Chris nodded slowly, as much to confirm the guildmaster’s words as to acknowledge her insight.

F’mibhas scurried to the back room with a much firmer “Right away, ma’am!” Before long, she came back with a simple, sturdy longbow and a quiver full of arrows, which she handed over to Chris.

Chris drew the string back experimentally, then nodded and took her place before a target. As soon as she did, she felt the attention of everyone in the room. _Well let’s give ‘em a show,_ she thought with a smirk. Knocking an arrow, she sighted down the firing line. _About ten meters… Hah! Kid stuff_.

Drawing back, she let her arrow fly, and with a _thwip-THUNK!_ it buried itself in the target, high on the far left.

Instantly, the feeling of the room changed, going from curious and expectant to confused and disappointed. No words were said, but their faces and posture spoke volumes. Only Luciane seemed unfazed by the apparently poor shot.

Chris let it all slide off of her. They’d see what she was up to soon enough. She drew back another arrow and fired, striking the target low and to the right, almost directly opposite the first.

Again, the room reacted with quiet judgement. Chris could practically _hear_ the silent accusations of overcorrecting.

 _Nope_ , she responded in her head, _that one also went right where I wanted it to_ . She drew back another arrow. _And so will this one_.

And it did, hitting high on the right, perfectly level (not that anyone else seemed to notice) with the one on the left. Her next, too, was a perfect mirror of the lower arrow, striking the left this time.

Chris drew her next arrow with a smirk, ready to blow all their doubts and skepticism right out of the water, but an Elezen man storming towards her diverted her attention.

“Enough of this!” he declared, his stern features set in a scowl. “The guildmaster might hold her tongue, but I shan’t!”

The guildmaster in question let out a small sigh. “Calm down, Silvairre,” she said tiredly.

“‘Calm down’?” he retorted, furious. “Luciane, she’s hit four quadrants of the target in as many shots! I don’t see how you can let this… this _farce_ continue!”

Luciane rubbed her temples and opened her mouth to speak, but Chris interjected. “You wanna start something, asshole?” she growled.

The man snorted derisively. “On the contrary, I want to _end_ this parody of our noble art you’re putting on.”

“I’ll put on a parody of your _face_ if you don’t shut up,” Chris spat back, and almost immediately regretted it. What did that even _mean_?

Silvairre stepped forward menacingly. “Why you—”

“Alright, enough, both of you!” the guildmaster shouted, stepping between them. “Silvairre, when I want your input on new prospects, I will ask for it; else you should remain silent.” The man harrumphed and crossed his arms, but otherwise remained silent. “And Chris,” Luciane continued, turning to her, “you shouldn’t antagonize your guildmates. Pray finish your assessment, so we can gain a more complete understanding of your ability.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chris said, “he’s got a point anyway; I should stop messing around.” Luciane raised an eyebrow, in challenge, skepticism, or simple curiosity, Chris couldn’t say. Instead of trying to decipher it, she flashed a cocky grin at Silvairre. “You’ll want to see this,” she told him.

Her remaining six arrows flew from her bow in quick succession, thumping into the target one after another, drawing a shallow, upward-pointing curve between the lower two arrows already there. Luciane’s other eyebrow joined its twin on her forehead, while Silvairre’s jaw went the opposite direction.

“How’s _that_ for a ‘farce’?” Chris said with a smirk. On the target opposite her, drawn in arrows, was a crude but undeniable representation of a frowning face.

A peal of laughter rang out, coming from a Miqo’te girl who’d been watching from a corner of the room, doubled over and pointing at the target. “She said,” she gasped out, her finger sliding towards Silvairre, “she said she’d put on a parody of your face… and she did!” The girl then dissolved into laughter again.

“I didn’t think it was _that_ funny,” Chris muttered.

Silvairre, meanwhile, flushed and glared first at Chris, then the Miqo’te, and stormed off.

Luciane watched him go impassively, then turned to the still-giggling Miqo’te. “Leih,” she said chastisingly as the girl drew herself up. “If you’re quite finished?” At her nod, the guildmaster continued. “What do you make of Chris, then?”

“Ah, uh, well,” the Miqo’te stammered, clearly not expecting to be put on the spot, but recovering quickly, “she certainly doesn’t want for confidence. There’s plenty in the guild who _could_ shoot like that, but wouldn’t risk looking foolish, even from only ten yalms.”

Chris’s mind moved very rapidly from “What’s a yalm?” to “Obviously it’s a unit of distance,” to slapping her forehead. “Geez, of _course_ you use different measurements here,” she groaned. “Everything _else_ is different, why _not_ that too!”

The room froze again, a few archers exchanging glances. Some looked like they wanted to say something, likely some variation of “What kind of idiot doesn’t use a yalm?” Even Leih looked to have completely lost her train of thought.

“Well,” Luciane said, breaking the silence, “I suppose a brief lesson is in order then. A yalm is about the average height of a Lalafell; the targets here are ten yalms away, if that gives you a clearer picture.”

 _So it’s about a meter_ , Chris thought, nodding along.

“There are three fulms in a yalm,” the guildmaster continued. “The length of a grown Hyur’s foot is a good approximation.”

 _This is starting to sound familiar_ , Chris thought with another, frownier nod.

“And a fulm contains twelve ilms,” Luciane said. “The feathers on the arrows we use here are about an ilm wide.”

Chris nodded again, eyes wide with dawning realization.

“And in the other direction,” Luciane went on, “a malm is one thousand, seven hundred and sixty yalms.”

Chris’s hand met her face again. _I don’t believe it_ , she thought. _It’s just fucking American units with funny names!_ “So what, are your units for weight olm, polm, and tolm?” she bit out before she could stop herself.

Luciane blinked. “Er, onze, ponze, and tonze, actually,” she said with an edge of suspicion. “And where are you from that you’re not familiar with these measurements?”

“Japan,” Chris said blithely.

Luciane frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” she said, “but foreign geography was never my strong suit.”

 _Yeah, well, I’d never heard of Gridania until I woke up here_ , Chris carefully didn’t say.

“Anyroad,” Luciane continued, seemingly content to let the subject drop, “Leih brings up a good point: from how far _could_ you make those shots?”

“I don’t usually show off like that past around thirty me—er, yalms,” Chris said, idly scratching her cheek in thought, “but with a good bow I could probably do fifty, maybe sixty?”

Luciane nodded thoughtfully. “Well,” she said, the barest hint of a smile teasing her lips, “I’m pleased to add you to the ranks of the Archers’ Guild.” There was a smattering of confused and hesitant applause from the onlookers which very quickly died out. When it finished, Luciane continued. “Now, I’m sure you have a number of other tasks to attend to, so I’ll let you be about it. But do come back when you have the time, and we’ll see if there aren’t still a few tricks we can teach you.”

“Right,” Chris said with an uncertain nod. She turned to go, then hesitated. “So, should I, uh, put this back?” she asked, gesturing with the bow.

“Keep it,” Luciane said with a hint of a smile. “Consider it your prize for impressing me.”

Chris mentally shrugged, retrieved her arrows, and went on her way.

As she exited the building, she caught sight of an orange-haired Elezen man running towards her, dressed in what she was beginning to suspect was the Wood Wailers’ uniform: a mask over the eyes and green-and-brown leathers. As soon as his gaze landed on her, his mouth curved upwards into a beaming grin, and he slowed to a stop in front of her.

“Fair maiden!” he cried, throwing his arms wide before transitioning into a sweeping bow. “Ah, how it lightens my heart to see you hale and hearty.”

Chris regarded him suspiciously. “Have we met?”

He froze for the briefest moment before rising, doing his best to look abashed. “Ah, I suppose you were unconscious for our first fateful meeting,” he said, then bowed again. “I am Eaufreaux of the Wood Wailers, and ‘twas I who had the privilege of escorting your sweetly slumbering form to our fair city.”

“Oh,” said Chris. “Well, you saved me the trouble of looking for you.”

Eaufreaux straightened again. “Please, fair maiden,” he said, “it is reward enough simply to know—”

“I need you to show me where you found me,” Chris interrupted.

The Wood Wailer froze. “W-what?”

“What?” Chris said challengingly.

Eaufreaux rapidly collected himself and coughed into his fist. “I mean, the Twelveswood is far too dangerous,” he said, “no place for a fair maiden such as yourself! But if you are missing belongings, I should be more than glad to search for them in your stead.” He gave Chris what she guessed was supposed to be a charming smile, which she returned with an unimpressed scowl.

“Yeah, no,” she said. “This is something I need to do myself, so you can either help me or get out of my way.”

Eaufreaux looked for a moment like he was going to argue, then thought better of it and let out a sigh. “Very well,” he said, “but I must insist you wear something more protective, and on this I shan’t budge!”

“Great!” Chris said, not breaking her scowl. “I was just headed to the market; you can help me pick something out.” She started walking past him without waiting for a response.

The Wood Wailer froze for a moment, then turned to follow her. “It would be my pleasure, fair maiden,” he said with another exaggerated bow.

“And can you stop with the ‘fair maiden’ shit?” Chris snapped. “My name is Chris!”

“Chris,” he practically sighed.

_He better not be about to—_

“Such a simple name,” he mused, “how it belies the depths of your beauty.”

Chris growled wordlessly and marched on resolutely.

A thankfully short walk later—and one blessedly free of Eaufreaux’s further waxing poetic about her beauty, though Chris suspected that was due mostly to her glaring every time he so much as opened his mouth—Chris learned that the market was housed in a long, single-story wooden building with its doors spread wide. People bustled to and fro amidst the long hallway, its walls lined with stalls proudly displaying their wares. At the opposite end, she caught a glimpse of a doorway leading to another room.

“Ah, the Shaded Bower!” Eaufreaux exclaimed, spreading his arms wide, though he quickly had to withdraw them to make way for a passing Roegadyn man in chainmail, not that it did much to quell his exuberance. “The beating heart of Gridanian commerce!” He turned towards Chris. “Since you are newly come to Gridania, I suppose I ought to explain how things are laid out here. We stand now amongst the Rosewood Stalls at the south end of the Shaded Bower, which sells all manner of weapons and armor an adventurer might need, while the Ebony Stalls at the north end are home to peddlers of potions, provisions, and plentiful other paraphernalia.” Chris hoped for his sake that he wasn’t trying to impress her with that alliteration. “And of course”—the Wood Wailer looked like he was about to bow again, but the steady stream of foot traffic convinced him otherwise—“in the unlikely event that there is aught you need that cannot be found here, I shall be more than glad to assist you.”

Chris gave him a half-hearted thanks before making her way to the armor vendor.

In the end, she wound up getting a pair of leather vambraces, a piece of thick leather padding to cover her chest, a sturdy belt with all manner of pouches, and a pair of boots; much as she loved her shoes, she wouldn’t be able to fight in heels without Ichaival enhancing her agility. From the north end of the market, she got two small pouches of dried fruits and nuts to snack on later, a bowl of stew (because Eaufreaux suggested she eat something before they depart), and a few potions that supposedly restored life force and accelerated natural healing—Chris was skeptical, but Eaufreaux insisted they were essential.

Eaufreaux also managed to increase her respect for him, first by pointing out particular traits of the various goods they perused that might be counter to her preferences, and again later by helping her haggle the prices down. Though the latter was admittedly helpful more for him knowing the value of gil—the local currency—than because he was actually good at haggling.

As Chris finished her stew (there were several vegetables and some kind of meat she couldn’t identify, but she didn’t survive under Finé’s care by being a picky eater), Eaufreaux approached her.

“Is there aught else you require, fair Chris?” he asked.

 _A gun. A friend. A working Symphogear. Some clue about what crisis I’m supposed to be stopping._ None of which were likely to be found in this weird fantasy-town marketplace. “I’m good,” she said instead. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Action, allies, and angst, not necessarily in that order


	3. This Unfamiliar Politeness and a Downpour of Bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd hoped to get this chapter out sooner, but I was struck by the lethal combination of writer's block and laziness. Still got it out before the end of the month though, which is what I was aiming for. Happy Thanksgiving to those of you in the States!
> 
> Anyway, apropos of nothing, I headcanon Chris as mildly hemophobic, which definitely doesn't become relevant in this chapter. _Definitely._
> 
> Also, this chapter plays around with text colors a little bit, which doesn't show up on AO3. If you care about such things, I recommend reading this chapter over on the [SB mirror](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/the-power-of-song-symphogear-ffxiv.883511/post-72193298).

The thing that struck Chris on exiting the city was just how mind-bogglingly huge the trees were. To call them simply “enormous” didn’t do them justice; easily ten meters or more across—or yalms, to use the local measurement—and probably hundreds high. Such behemoths were of course visible from—and even existed within—the city, but she hadn’t really been in the mindset to properly acknowledge their sheer  _ presence _ . And they didn’t thrive at the expense of other flora, either; between the towering spires of forestry were more reasonably sized trees, shrubs, and other foliage. Chris wasn’t usually one to appreciate nature’s splendor, but she couldn’t help but pause at the scene before her.

The only thing marring this incredible view…

“Ah, but even this beauteous vista pales before your radiance, fair Chris!”

… was the company.

“Stuff it!” she told Eaufreaux, fighting down a blush. “You’re here to show me where you found me, not give me flowery compliments!”

The Wood Wailer in question clutched his chest dramatically as though struck. “Ah!” he cried. “To be spurned by the Matron Herself would not sting so!”

Chris let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh as she turned to the Wood Wailers standing guard at the gate. “Is he always like this?”

“It would be poor form to speak ill of my brother-in-arms,” said the one on the left, a stern-faced Hyur, “but it would also be poor form to speak untruthfully, so I shall refrain from answering.” The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he finished speaking.

The one on the right, once he composed himself enough to stop stifling his chuckles, had no such compunctions. “I can count on one hand the women I’ve seen him  _ not _ make advances towards,” he said. “One of them is his mother, and the other two are the Elder Seedseer and her sister.”

“ _ Slander! _ ” Eaufreaux objected, pointing an accusatory finger at the offender. He opened his mouth to say more, but Chris grabbed his outstretched finger and began pulling him away.

“Okay, Romeo, you can defend your honor another time, we’ve got places to be,” she said.

Eaufreaux sputtered out the first syllable of an objection before apparently thinking better of it. “We shall have  _ words _ ,” he called back to the guard, who only chortled in response.

Despite the undignified departure, Eaufreaux quickly remembered that he was supposed to be guiding Chris and took the lead, pointing out various plants and animals.

Chris listened with half an ear, more concerned with the thoughts running through her head. What would she do if she  _ did _ find a portal? Get back to base and get backup, probably; the situation is weird enough without being on her own. But what if her guess about Ichaival being too damaged was right and she  _ can’t _ ? Chris didn’t want to think about that. Then again, if there  _ was _ a portal in the first place, wouldn’t Eaufreaux have seen it when he found her? And if he did, why wouldn’t he mention it? But if the portal  _ wasn’t _ there, then why was  _ she _ ?

Too many questions, and no way to know when she’d get any answers. But among the myriad questions, she abruptly remembered one that she  _ could _ get an answer to. “Hey, Eaufreaux?” she said, interrupting his waxing poetic on whatever a funguar was.

“Yes?” If was put off by the interruption, he didn’t show it.

“I was told you found me near the Guardian Tree,” Chris began.

“Yes, that’s correct,” he replied.

“Why is it called that?”

Eaufreaux crossed his arms and hummed thoughtfully. “While I can’t recall why that name in particular was chosen,” he said, “the Guardian Tree is worthy of note for being the oldest living thing in the Twelveswood. As such, it is a place of great significance to the elementals that watch over the forest.”

“Huh,” Chris said, trying not to be too put off by more vaguely mystical nonsense. “It’s pretty important, then?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that life as we know it in the Twelveswood hinges on its wellbeing.”

Chris glanced at him, searching his masked face for any sign of hyperbole. “If it’s so important, why not build the city around it?”

“I can think of two reasons,” Eaufreaux said. “The first is that the terrain simply doesn’t allow for it. And the second, which I admit is but speculation, however well-founded, is that to do so incautiously could very well invite the elementals’ ire unto us.”

Chris made a noise of acknowledgement, letting the topic drop.

The rest of the walk passed in relative quiet, though not without complaint from Chris’s legs. After passing beneath an absolutely massive root, thicker even than some of the largest trees (“The Matron’s Lethe,” Eaufreaux called it. “It’s used as a walkway up the cliff to Sorrel Haven.”), they left the path and began following a stream through the narrow gorge it flowed out of. A short while later, the gorge opened up onto a wide and shallow pool, in the middle of which stood a tree that shaded almost the entire area with its branches. It wasn’t especially tall, especially compared to the arboreal giants that populated the forest (several of which stood at the edges of the pool), but it had a kind of indescribable presence to it.

“There is the Guardian Tree,” Eaufreaux said, continuing along the edge of the pool towards a spot of dry land in a back corner, “and over here is where I found you. But you still haven’t explained what you hope to find…?” His voice trailed upwards at the end as though it were a question.

Chris barely had to look around. “It doesn’t matter,” she said bitterly. “It’s not here.”

Eaufreaux gave her what was probably a skeptical look behind his mask. “Are you certain? You’ve hardly taken a glance around.”

Chris waved off his concern. “It’s pretty obvious if you know what you’re looking for.”  _ Or even if you don’t _ , she added mentally.

Truthfully, she had known this was a long shot; if there  _ had _ been a portal here, Eaufreaux would have mentioned it, surely. But still, this was one more in a growing list of oddities about this mission. The unfamiliar language and countries she could  _ almost _ write off as just having never heard of them—she’s hardly an encyclopedia, after all—but between the unfamiliar  _ races _ , widespread use of teleportation, not to mention a  _ second fucking moon _ , it all gave Chris the sense that she was much further from home than usual. On top of all that, there was the so-called Calamity that seemed like exactly the sort of thing the Gjallarhorn would react to. And yet, here she was, five years too late to do anything about it. And she still had no clues as to what it  _ was _ reacting to, or where Tsubasa was or how they even got separated.

“Chris?” Eaufreaux’s voice, laden with concern, broke her out of her reverie. “Are you alright? You’ve been staring off into the distance for nearly a minute now.”

Chris exhaled sharply to keep herself from venting all her frustration and uncertainty. “No, I’m not okay,” she said sourly, “but I won’t find what I’m looking for here, so we may as well head back.”

Eaufreaux’s masked face was hard to read, but Chris was pretty sure the frown he gave her was a concerned one. “If you’re certain,” he said, sounding like he very much was not.

They turned to go, but froze as a large group of what Chris could only describe as “bird-people” emerged from the gorge. Most of their tall and thin bodies were covered in brownish feathers, clearly visible beneath their minimal leather armor. Their long arms ended in four taloned fingers, which held all manner of weapons: spears, axes, swords and crude shields, wooden staves. Their faces were dominated by tooth-filled beaks, and long, gazelle-like horns sprouted from the tops of their heads, adding to their already impressive stature. And one among them stood head and shoulders above even that, easily eight or nine fulms tall, and wielded a great spiked club nearly as long as his lanky arms.

And as the pair observed, so were they observed in turn. One of the birdmen glanced at them, then nudged one of his compatriots, and the two began moving towards them, brandishing their weapons threateningly.

“Ixal? Here?” Eaufreaux said incredulously. Shaking his head, he clutched his spear and readied himself. “Stay back, fair Chris!” he cried. “I shall—”

He was interrupted by an arrow whizzing past his head, burying itself in one of the advancing birdmen’s legs and sending him sprawling to the ground with a pained squawk. Eaufreaux looked back to see Chris, bow in hand and already knocking another arrow.

“What, you didn’t think this thing was just for show, did you?” she asked rhetorically. In one smooth motion, she drew the arrow and loosed it at the other charging Ixal, striking him in the forearm he’d raised to attack Eaufreaux and making him drop his sword. “And pay attention, dammit! This isn’t the time to be spacing out!”

Eaufreaux nodded and turned forward, thrusting his spear into the disarmed Ixal’s belly. Chris had to force down bile at the spray of blood as he pulled it out, letting the creature slump  ~~ lifelessly ~~ to the ground.

Seeing this, the largest Ixal in the group squawked in outrage. “Interrupt us, you dare!? In your own blood, you shall bathe!”

At the apparent leader’s words, another wave of birdmen charged forward, brandishing their weapons.

“We must hold here!” Eaufreaux cried out, planting his feet. “Whatever they intend for the Guardian Tree, it can only mean disaster for Gridania.”

Personally, Chris didn’t like their odds. Outnumbered more than ten-to-one in a remote part of the forest with almost no chance of backup and no option to retreat? A cakewalk if her Symphogear was working, but without it…  _ Fuck, I’m gonna need to go back to therapy after this _ .

She drew back her bow, but as she took aim at the closest foe—right in the eye, she decided—a rain of arrows fell upon the backs of the advancing Ixal. They fell, and as their fellows turned to find the source, Chris looked past them to see a man in a bright red tunic at the head of a host of archers and spearmen as they emerged from the gorge.

“First squad, left flank,” he called. “Second and third, right flank. The rest, with me.” At his direction, smaller groups split off, presumably to do battle with other groups of Ixal, while the main force continued advancing.

“Twelve be praised!” Eaufreaux sighed. “The Bowlord is here!” The presence of reinforcements emboldened him enough to start moving forward, even as three more Ixal, including the one Chris had tripped earlier, began advancing towards them.

Chris fired an arrow at the already-injured birdman, striking his good leg and making him collapse again, then took aim at the next. She loosed her arrow just as he dodged a spear thrust from Eaufreaux, and the arrow, aimed at his shoulder, buried itself in his neck instead. He fell to the ground with a wet gurgle.

For the second time in less than a minute, Chris had to fight not to throw up.

She collected herself just in time to see Eaufreaux open a deep gash in the third Ixal’s belly, then continue on towards the leader, who seemed to be barely kept at bay by an archer and another spearman. With a cry, Eaufreaux thrust forward, only for the chieftain to dodge with a grace belied by his size and strike the Wailer in the side with an almost casual backhanded swing of his spiked club.

“Almighty, wisdom of Paragons is!” the enormous Ixal cawed out. “Perish, unfea—”

Chris didn’t realize she’d taken the shot until she saw the fletching of her arrow poking out from his open beak. She forced herself to take deep breaths as she watched him topple into the shallow water with an anticlimactically small splash that was lost amidst the sounds of battle.

But even if his fall went unnoticed, he’d been a commanding presence on the battlefield, and his absence was quickly picked up on by both sides. The Ixal began fighting more desperately, some even trying to flee, while the Gridanian forces grew bolder, fighting with the surety of promised victory.

Chris noted these things distractedly, focusing instead on her breathing, on the almost tangible presence of the Guardian Tree, on the sound of flowing water beneath the clamor of battle, on anything other than the dead, accusatory stare of the Ixal chieftain as he collapsed. She didn’t know how much time passed, but it couldn’t have been too much later that one of the Gridanian archers, a black-haired Hyur in a dark red tunic, awkwardly approached her.

“You, um,” he began hesitantly, then coughed into a fist. “You shoot well, adventurer.”

“Thanks?” Chris said, not sure where he was going with this.

He seemed to debate with himself a moment more before speaking again. “We’ve been called to reinforce the left flank,” he explained. “I realize you’re not technically part of this operation, but it would be appreciated if you were to remain here in case there are any stragglers nearby.”

“Yeah, sure, leave it to me,” Chris said, glancing around as she continued working her way out of her daze. Then her attention caught on something. “Wait, where’s Eaufreaux?”

“The Wailer who was with you?” the archer said. “He fell back with the rest of the wounded. From the way he was walking I’d guess bruised ribs at the worst. The healers will have him right as rain in a few days.”

Chris let out a sigh of relief, even as she filed away the apparent existence of highly advanced medical technology. “That’s good.”

“If there’s nothing else,” the archer said, clearly not expecting there to be. At her nod, he turned and left with an over-the-shoulder, “Good hunting, adventurer!”

And with that, Chris was alone with her thoughts again.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been responsible for someone’s death—and not just in the sense of not being able to save them; she’d unleashed untold hordes of Noise at Finé’s behest, and the idea that no one died as a result was laughable. But she hadn’t  _ seen _ those deaths, hadn’t seen the light leave their eyes, had certainly not seen their lifeless bodies slumped on the ground (the way Noise reduced their victims to so much carbon ash was horrific, to be sure, but for this reason alone, Chris was thankful for it) and known that  _ she did this _ . The deaths of these Ixal seemed so much more personal; they were concrete, definite, and right in front of her. That they were so different, physically, from humans was a small mercy; it meant her mind didn’t superimpose the image of her parents’ burned and broken bodies over them.

With a shuddering sigh, Chris turned towards the Guardian Tree—and froze. There, beneath its boughs, stood a mysterious figure. Their height and build suggested a Hyuran man, but all other details were obscured by loose robes, raised hood, and a full-face mask, all black. Despite the lack of discernible features, he radiated a menacing aura that had Chris knocking an arrow almost without thinking about it.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The masked figure didn’t immediately respond, but a moment later shook his head as if to clear it of unwanted thoughts. “It matters not,” he muttered, just loud enough for Chris to hear. “My course is clear.” Before she could respond, he threw his arms wide as a glowing red glyph appeared in front of his masked face, looking almost like the footprint of some bizarre creature, or perhaps a stylized skull, and waves of dark energy began spilling off of him. “ O mournful voice of creation! ” he called out in a strange, almost moaning language, and the energy began pooling in front of him, just above the surface of the water. “ Send unto me a creature of the abyss, my thrall to command, that I may smite mine enemies! ”

As he finished, from the inky black pool before him rose a creature Chris could only call demonic. It was tall, easily twice her height, and corded with muscle. Its skin was ashen gray and faded to dark purple at the extremities, and its cruel, reptilian face was crowned with large, curved horns. Bat-like wings jutted from its back, too small to allow for flight, but added to its imposing figure, and a long tail whipped back and forth behind it. Each of its long arms gripped a massive cleaver, intricately carved with designs of teeth and eyes. As it finished emerging from the pool (portal?), it brandished its weapons with a fearsome roar.

“Your very being imperils the plan,” the masked man said, addressing Chris directly for the first time. “You cannot be suffered to live.”

The least consistent part of dealing with Gjallarhorn alerts, in Chris’s experience, was figuring out the cause. Sometimes it would be obvious right away, sometimes there would be days of no progress and false leads. But sometimes, she reflected, you stumbled across a mysterious figure displaying extraordinary powers bemoaning your interference in an unspecified plan and threatening to kill you. Which, granted, wasn’t a great situation to be in, especially with a damaged Gear, but it was a pretty solid first step.

_ And step two _ , Chris thought, taking aim at the demonic creature,  _ is to beat you up and make you tell me your plan! _ She fired, and her arrow buried itself in the creature’s thigh. It stumbled, but only briefly, and swung its sword with a menacing growl.

Chris ducked under the attack and danced around to the creature’s right side, landing another arrow in its leg as she did. It spun to face her with a wild backswing from its right hand, followed by a downward chop from its left, then a frustrated snarl as Chris dodged both.

For all the creature’s size and strength, it wasn’t terribly fast; that even Chris could keep ahead of it without her Gear was a testament to that.  _ Which means the real threat _ , she realized, her gaze briefly sliding to the masked man,  _ is tall, dark, and cliché getting the idea to summon more _ .

The demon also seemed to realize that it needed to change its tactics, taking a low swipe at Chris’s legs. She dove over the sword, taking aim at the summoner and firing while still midair, and rolled to her feet in time to see him jerk out of the way enough that the arrow only grazed his arm.

He clutched the wound with a pained hiss then turned his face towards her. Chris felt pretty comfortable assuming he was glaring at her beneath his mask. “You’ve made a critical error, girl,” he growled, then he flung his arm out towards her and a fireball flew from his hand!

Chris leapt away, then immediately had to roll beneath a slash from the demon. “Okay,” she panted. “Might’ve screwed up there.” She jumped over a low swipe at her crouched form, ducked under a high follow-up, then leapt away from a downward finisher—

—Right into the path of an oncoming fireball.

Time seemed to slow down as she watched it approach. She would land only moments before impact, not enough time to dodge again. All she could do was bring her arm up, tuck her face into her elbow, and hope her minimal armor could withstand the blast. But as she did so, she noticed the demon moving as though it were suddenly struck by a powerful force. As its movement continued (into the path of the fireball, she noticed), she caught sight of the likely cause of its sudden motion: a Hyuran woman in a loose, white shirt and bright red, thigh-high metal boots backflipping away from the creature, likely out of some kind of flying kick.

Time resumed. The demon collided with the fireball with a pained roar, Chris planted her feet with an expletive on her lips, and the unknown woman landed with impeccable grace. “In the nick of time!” she cried exuberantly, a wisp of blonde hair falling out from beneath her white and brown turban. “Hurry it up, Papalymo!” she called over her shoulder as she rushed the masked man.

Chris turned in the direction of her call and saw a sandy-haired Lalafell in a white-trimmed black robe. His hands, clad in pale yellow gauntlets, held a horned scepter topped with a gleaming golden gem, which he pointed at the demon with a cry of “ _ Blizzaga! _ ” At his word, countless shards of ice formed in the air and shot towards the creature, which turned just in time to take the brunt of the attack. Flying ice pierced into its hide and tore off chunks of flesh that dissolved into black smoke and dissipated, and the beast fell.

The Lalafell—Papalymo, presumably—then gave Chris a convivial smile. “I trust you won’t object to our assistance,” he said, even as he flung out a fast-moving cloud of almost glowing mist, which collided with another fireball and exploded in a cloud of steam.

“Uh, yeah,” Chris said dumbly, mentally adjusting her threat evaluation of staff-wielders on this world.

The sound of shattering ice drew her attention back to the fight just in time to see the unknown woman rocket away from a thick sheet of ice. She rushed at the masked man with a flurry of punches and kicks, which he dodged with the jerky and exaggerated movements of someone unused to close combat; Chris could almost sympathize.

Papalymo flung a fireball at the scuffle, trusting his companion to dodge it, but the masked man seemed to catch it and swung it at her. She leapt back, but didn’t offer him respite for long. She juked right, left, then rushed in with a straight punch to the chest that sent the man stumbling back. He raised his arm to launch another attack, but Chris was ready and struck it with an arrow, and his fireball was sent wide, splashing harmlessly against the rocks. He whirled to face her, just in time to see Papalymo point his staff with a shout of “ _ Firaga! _ ” The flame that issued forth was a tiny thing, barely more than a spark, but it was  _ fast _ , crossing the distance near instantly, and exploded into a raging conflagration that completely engulfed its target.

But the flames dissipated quickly, and the masked man emerged mostly unharmed. The arrow in his arm had been burned away and the wound cauterized, what little skin was visible had a distinct redness to it, and he was moving a bit more stiffly, but he otherwise seemed none the worse for wear. “You dare—?”

He was cut off by the Hyuran woman closing the distance and delivering a kick to his chin that  _ launched _ him upwards. Papalymo seemed ready for the maneuver and, with another “ _ Blizzaga! _ ”, caught him at the apex of his flight with a hail of ice shards. They tore into him like knives, blood streaming from the new wounds as he fell. He hit the ground heavily, face-first, and tried weakly to raise himself with one arm.

“That the wisdom of the Paragons,” he gasped out, “should be brought low—” he was interrupted by a bloody cough “—by mere mortals…” Then he collapsed, clearly dead.

Chris scowled at that. Not only was it one more death she was party to, but she’d had some very pointed questions for him about this plan of his.

“… ‘Paragons’?” Papalymo echoed.

“That’s what I heard,” his companion confirmed. Now that she had a better look, Chris could see that the woman’s upper face was covered by a leather mask with only a few small holes over the eyes to allow for vision.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed distractedly. “The Ixal leader mentioned them, too.”

“The Bringers of Chaos…” the Lalafell mused, “or  _ Ascians _ , to give them their proper name. It would seem our suspicions were correct—it is they who have been manipulating the beast tribes.”

Chris perked up in curiosity. “And you fight these ‘Ascian’ guys often?” she asked.

“Well, ‘often’ might be overstating it a bit,” the mage’s Hyuran companion said, “they don’t tend to act directly, you see. But they  _ have _ been meddling in things more than usual lately.”

_ Close one door and another opens, I guess _ , Chris thought. “How can I help?” she asked.

Both of the strangers looked surprised at that, though the Lalafell’s face quickly morphed into a pensive frown, a gauntleted hand coming up to stroke his chin. “For most adventurers,” he said, “the best way to help us is to continue helping the realm.”

Chris crossed her arms. “I’m not ‘most adventurers,’” she said challengingly.

“Yes, there’s no doubt you’re quite formidable,” the small wizard conceded with a nod, “but in this case, the exceptions are possessed of particular traits, ones that cannot be taught, of which I’ve yet to see evidence in you.”

Chris scowled. It just figured, with the way her day had been, that the first lead she found wouldn’t want her to follow it. She briefly considered telling them about the Gjallarhorn and parallel worlds, but decided the chance of being overheard was too high.

Her caution was rewarded immediately as the Bowlord returned with the bulk of his forces. “Are you unharmed!?” he called. As he drew close, he flinched at the sight of the fallen demon. “Had I known this creature was near, I would have  _ sent _ men, not called them away!”

“I’m fine,” Chris said. “Good day for timely reinforcements, I guess.” She gestured to Papalymo and his companion, the taller of whom gave a smile and a small wave.

Further conversation was preempted by one of the Bowlord’s men. “There is no mistake, sir,” he said from where he was kneeling over the fallen mage, “this is the one who stirred the Ixal from their nest. Our intelligence was reliable.”

The Bowlord strode over to get a better look at the corpse. “So  _ this _ is the man who has eluded us for so long?”

“Right!” Papalymo’s companion exclaimed. “We finally got him!”

“We sensed an ominous presence, and came here as swiftly as our legs would carry us,” Papalymo added.

“My thanks as ever, friends,” the Bowlord replied with a nod. Then he turned back to the assembled troops. “Quivermen!” he called. “Move out!” As they began marching off, he turned back to Chris. “To say you played an instrumental role in the success of this mission would scarcely do justice to your efforts this day, adventurer,” he said. “Upon your return to Gridania, pray visit me at Quiver's Hold. I will see to it that you receive the thanks you are due.” With that, he left to join his troops, leaving Chris alone with the strange pair.

“Ah, come to think of it,” the Lalafell said as if reading her thoughts, “we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? I am Papalymo, and the tactless woman beside me here is—”

“Yda!” the tactless woman interrupted cheerfully. “Pleased to meet you!”

Chris looked disbelievingly at Yda for a moment. “… Chris,” she replied at last. “Thanks for the help.”

“It was no trouble at all,” Yda said.

Papalymo nodded in agreement. “Always happy to lend a hand in the defense of the realm. Though speaking of which…” He trailed off as though inviting Chris to respond, and she sighed.

“Is this about what we were talking about earlier?” she asked.

The Lalafell nodded. “While you are not the first adventurer to offer assistance against the Ascians, most who argue our refusal do so out of pride, which I don’t think is the case with you.”

Chris sighed again. She had a feeling she’d be doing that a lot in this conversation. “It’s not really something I should be talking about in the open like this,” she said with a frustrated scowl.

Papalymo nodded sagely. “Say no more,” he said. “We’re quite familiar with the need for discretion. I wish we could offer you a safe place to discuss things, but Yda and I have much yet to attend to, and it’s hard to say when we’ll next have a spare minute.”

“Yeah,” Chris sighed, “that’s kind of how my day’s been going.”

“However,” Papalymo said, “if you have aught else you need assistance with, we can at least hear you out.”

“In that case…” Chris paused to gather her thoughts. More information on the Ascians was probably not going to be forthcoming until they decided she met whatever arbitrary criteria they had set, which meant her top priority should be meeting up with Tsubasa. Then again, that the Gjallarhorn portal wasn’t here, where she appeared in the world, meant something strange was going on with it, possibly even to the point of needing to make their own way home; it might be best to start looking into that while there were no other leads to chase.

Nodding to herself, Chris met Papalymo’s eyes. “There’s two things, actually,” she said. “I was travelling with someone else, but we got separated; not sure where or how, really. Her name is Tsubasa, she’s a bit taller than me, has long blue hair, tends to wear blue, and probably has a sword by this point.”

Papalymo nodded. “We’ll keep an eye out,” he promised. “And the second thing?”

“For the second thing,” Chris said, “where could I go to learn about magic?”

“Is this related to things best discussed behind closed doors, by any chance?” the Lalafell asked. Chris nodded, and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to say without knowing what you’re looking for,” he said. “The patriot in me wants to say Sharlayan is most likely to have what you need, which it may well be, but with the way things have been there recently, you’re likely to be turned away at the gates.” He shook his head. “No, your best option is mostly likely Ul’dah. The Order of Nald’thal maintains a considerable library there, though you may have to do them a favor to be allowed access.”

“Ul’dah, Order of Nald’thal, got it,” Chris said. “Thanks.”

Papalymo nodded. “Now, I’m afraid we really must get back to it, but I hope our paths cross in the future. Come along Yda,” he said, beckoning his companion.

As the pair walked off, Chris vaguely heard Yda say something plaintive, but their conversation quickly turned indistinct.

Chris turned to look at the Guardian Tree once more, letting its strong yet gentle presence sink in. Then, taking a deep breath, she turned and began making her own way back to Gridania.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: (Preparing for) a long journey
> 
> Next chapter is also the one I have the least pre-written for so far, and the least-clear concept of what all happens in it, so it'll take a bit longer than I have been so far.


	4. Believe in that First Step into the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me a little bit, but I managed to keep it to a size where I'm comfortable not splitting it.
> 
> Also, there are certain things in this chapter that I _really_ hope someone asks about, because I feel clever and want to brag.

Chris moved through the Carline Canopy like a gale through the treetops, rapidly approaching Miounne behind the Adventurers’ Guild counter. “How do I get to Ul’dah?” she all but demanded.

Miounne blinked a few times at the girl’s sudden arrival and request, but quickly regained her composure. “Well,” she said, marshalling her thoughts, “I don’t suppose you’ve somehow managed to get ahold of an airship pass, have you?”

“A what?” Chris’s thoughts raced. The question implied that not only was air travel available, it was also being restricted for some reason. Something to do with the Calamity? Or maybe that empire Miounne had mentioned; what was it called, Garlic or something?

Miounne, meanwhile, went ahead with her train of thought. “No, I didn’t think so,” she said. “More’s the pity. It would have made both our tasks much easier.” She leaned down to fetch something from beneath the counter, coming back up with a stack of folded papers. She unfolded one and turned it for Chris to read. “This is a map of the Twelveswood, or the Black Shroud, as it’s known elsewhere,” she explained. “Gridania is here” —she circled a small area— “and Ul’dah, at this scale, is off the counter and another fulm and a half or so that way,” she said, indicating south-southwest on the map.

“Luckily, the route itself is well-traveled and fairly straightforward,” Miounne continued. “You’ll leave Gridania through the Blue Badger Gate, just down the road” —she pointed toward the door— “and bear right at the fork to cross the West Vein into Bentbranch. Then continue south” —she traced a path on the map— “and take the left path at Galvanth’s Spire. From there, you more or less just follow the road south until you reach…” she trailed off as she unfolded another map, then triumphantly pointed out the appropriate spot. “—Camp Drybone in Thanalan. After taking the south road out, you’ll turn west to reach Black Brush Station, and from there turn south again for the last leg of the journey.”

Chris tried not to balk at the distance described. Just her earlier excursion to the Guardian Tree had been more than an hour’s walk, but this… “And how long is that gonna take?” she asked, trying to keep the dread from her voice.

Miounne hummed thoughtfully. “On foot, I’d expect it to take about a week,” she said, and Chris’s eyes bugged out, “though depending on how comfortable you are in a saddle, renting a chocobo might shorten that considerably.”

Chris sighed heavily and put a hand to her head. “That means I’m gonna need supplies,” she said. “Food, water, a sleeping bag, probably something to light a fire, too… Oh, and a bag to hold it all, of course.”

Miounne nodded sagely. “Yes, not a journey to be undertaken on a whim,” she said. “Considering the lateness of the hour, I would suggest spending the rest of the day, and perhaps tomorrow as well, seeing to your preparations and any business you still have in the city, and leave first thing the following morning.”

“And where do you suggest I  _ sleep _ ?” Chris snapped, to her immediate regret.

Miounne, however, took it in stride with a sly smile. “As it happens, I just finished making arrangements for that,” she said. “You see, another of the less-advertised benefits of the Adventurers’ Guild is that its members enjoy the accommodations of the Roost free of charge. Just speak with Antoinaut at the far counter and he’ll see you taken care of.”

“Okay,” Chris breathed. “One less thing to worry about.”

“Oh, but I’m afraid I just thought of one more,” Miounne said, bringing a hand to her cheek. “Supplies such as you require will cost no small amount of gil, and unless your financial situation has improved dramatically in the past few hours…”

“It actually has, believe it or not,” Chris replied. She’d stopped by to see the Bowlord before coming here, and it turned out he had a rather sizable discretionary fund to reward “exceptional deeds in service to Gridania and the Twelveswood,” from which Chris had been paid a generous sum.

Miounne’s expression quickly morphed from distress to curiosity to realization. “And might that have something to do with the Quivermen who came by earlier regaling us with tales of a beautiful young adventurer who struck down an Ixal chieftain with a single arrow?” she said teasingly.

“It might,” Chris said, shifting uncomfortably. Even if it had been a matter of life and death, even if it had protected people, killing him hadn’t felt good. And somehow, being praised for it felt  _ worse _ .

Miounne, to her credit, picked up on her distress immediately. “Are you alright?” she asked. “I know such tales tend gloss over the hardships involved, but—”

“I’m fine,” Chris cut her off, then looked away. “I just… don’t like killing.”

Miounne let out a small sigh. “Now there’s a face I’m familiar with,” she said sadly, then leaned forward on the counter. “Listen, Chris, you’re not the first young adventurer I’ve had to talk through a first-kill funk, so—”

“Third,” Chris corrected distractedly. “Sort of.”

Miounne blinked. “’Sort of’?” she echoed.

“Well, the first wasn’t technically alive, and the second turned out to have faked her death,” Chris explained, wanting desperately to talk about  _ anything else _ . “They both at least had the decency to not leave a corpse behind,” she muttered darkly.

“I see,” Miounne said, looking like she was filing the information away for later, but quickly shifting back to the motherly act. “Well regardless, it’s clear that this is bothering you, and it’s not healthy to go on a journey like this with something like that weighing down your heart.”

Chris knew that. Of course she did. But she also couldn’t let the guilt slow her down.  _ “Move forwards while grasping our sins,” right, Maria? _ “Thanks for your concern,” she told Miounne, “but I’ll be fine.”

Miounne looked dubious. “If you say so,” she said. “But a mother worries, you know.”

Chris hummed noncommittally, trying not to think about the fact that she hadn’t been the subject of motherly worry for ten years. “Anyway,” she said, “you said something about renting a chocobo?”

Miounne gave Chris a disappointed frown at the obvious change of subject, but went along with it anyway. “You’ll want to talk to Cingur about that,” she said. “You can find him around back of the Canopy, by the aetheryte plaza.”

From there, the conversation moved on to further details of what the journey would likely entail and how to prepare for it. Miounne gave Chris the maps of the Twelveswood and Thanalan (the arid region Ul’dah occupied) and a list of supplies to obtain. Chris first stopped by the innkeeper’s counter to reserve a room for the night, then went to find the so-called chocobokeep. He turned out to be the same man that she had earlier seen saddling a large bird. He confirmed that, yes, the birds are chocobos, and yes, people ride them like horses, and yes, she could certainly rent one, and no, she needn’t worry about returning the bird afterward, it’d make its own way back, and where did she say she was going again?

“Quite the journey,” he said to her reply. “And have you much riding experience?” he asked her.

“No,” she admitted.  _ Missile-surfing probably isn’t a transferable skill here _ .

“In that case, it might be better to give you a porter bird instead,” he mused.

“What’s the difference?” Chris asked.

“Well, for a start, chocobo porters follow a predetermined route,” he explained, “which means an inexperienced rider won’t accidentally lead them astray. Furthermore, in the event you’re attacked by roving bandits or territorial beasts, a hired porter will do its utmost to outrun the threat, while free-range rentals are like to throw their rider and run for home. On the downside, however, we can’t offer porter services outside the Twelveswood for a number of reasons, so you’d have to go on foot from Camp Tranquil until you can hire another chocobo.”

Chris considered that. “And how much time would that add?” she asked at last.

Cingur tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, I’m obviously not as familiar with Ul’dah’s porter network as the one here in Gridania,” he said, “but for a competent rider familiar with the route, I’d expect it to add no more than a day to the journey. But if the rider is inexperienced or prone to getting lost, or if circumstances conspire against her,” his eyes met hers as though to convey some hidden meaning, “hiring a porter may actually be the faster option.”

“Uh-huh,” Chris said flatly. “And I’m  _ sure _ you’re not just saying that because it’s more expensive, too.”

“Oh, no,” the chocobokeep refuted, “quite the opposite, in fact. We rent our chocobos at a hundred gil per day, while a porter to Camp Tranquil would cost only fifty.”

Chris wondered briefly how the economics of that worked out, but decided she wasn’t curious enough to ask. “Fine,” she sighed, “I’ll take the porter.”

The rest of the conversation was spent covering details of her departure and payment, as well as some minor rules of hiring a porter. With that settled, Chris’s next objective was to purchase supplies, which she accomplished without incident. As she carried her acquisitions back to the Carline Canopy, she paused at the path leading to the Archers’ Guild. She had all but promised Luciane she’d return, and the guildmaster seemed to think there was something she could teach her.  _ And it’s not like I have anything better to do with the rest of the day _ , Chris thought, glancing at the sun still well above the horizon.  _ I’ll just drop this stuff off at the inn first _ .

Said and done, and before long Chris found herself back in the training hall.

“Ah, Chris,” Luciane said, turning to greet her with a smile. “You caused quite a stir when you came to see the Bowlord earlier.” His office, Chris had learned, was on the second floor of this building, which she really shouldn’t have found as surprising as she had.

“Yeah, he said something about averting untold disaster,” Chris replied with only slightly forced nonchalance. “So, you know, just your average day.” She wasn’t even exaggerating that much; saving the world became a lot less exciting once you’ve done it three or four times.

Luciane chuckled. “If it’s such a frequent occurrence, I would be remiss if I didn’t offer what aid I can,” she said.

“Is this about those lessons you mentioned?” Chris asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Luciane said. “The technique I wish to teach you is a most potent one, known as Windbite. By imbuing your arrow with wind-aspected aether, you can bring the power of the very air around you to bear against your opponents.”

“Sounds neat,” Chris said. “How do I do that?”

The corner of Luciane’s mouth turned down with confusion and consternation. “As I said, you simply imbue your arrow with wind-aspected aether as you fire it,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” Chris said with a slow nod and a blank stare. “Can you explain it to me like I’m four?”

“Chris,” the guildmaster said flatly, “do you mean to tell me that you’ve somehow reached this point in your life without learning even the basic fundamentals of aether manipulation?” There was something accusatory in the question, though Chris got the sense it wasn’t directed at her.

“Uh, yes?” she said helplessly.

Luciane held her gaze with a flat, skeptical stare for a moment before pinching her nose and sighing. “I suspect I would find this ‘Japan’ of yours a most bizarre place,” she said, to Chris’s silent agreement. “Anyroad, this is something you’re best off learning from the Conjurers’ Guild. They often hold such lessons for children, so it’s hardly a strange request.”

After getting directions and promising to return once her lessons were finished (which Luciane seemed to think would not be until the next day), Chris set off and soon found herself at Stillglade Fane, an underground chamber carved beneath the stump of an enormous tree. The entrance was a roughly hewn tunnel, lit sporadically by hanging lanterns. After a gentle descent, it curved into an antechamber dominated by a bridge across a shallow pool fed by two small waterfalls that emerged from holes in the wall. Crossing the bridge and passing through the door beyond revealed what could almost be called a large alcove in a much larger chamber. The alcove was cheerily lit by strategically placed lanterns, with one side dominated by a desk, manned by an Elezen woman in a dark blue robe and hat, partially blocking off a storage area, and the other clear save for a door set in the wall. Straight ahead was a bridge leading to a large platform in the middle of the chamber. Though lanterns were scattered about the platform, they were, seemingly by design, insufficient to fully light it, leaving its center, and the chamber at large, lit primarily by the soft blue glow of the strange flowers growing in an alcove in the back wall. The strange lighting gave the place a mystical air and left much of the room in shadows. Chris could make out the dark shapes of roots trailing down the walls and hear the sound of water lapping gently at the edge of a pool echo from somewhere below.

Chris approached the robed woman at the desk. “Welcome to Stillglade Fane,” the woman said quietly. “Do you need assistance with something?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, trying not to flush with embarrassment. “I need… lessons…”

“Oh!” the woman replied brightly, though without raising her voice. “Are you here to learn the noble art of conjury?”

“No,” Chris croaked, looking away and  _ definitely _ flushing. “More, uh… basic…”

The woman blinked, first in confusion, then in almost horrified realization. “Oh,” she said, a hand going to her mouth. “In that case, I suppose you’d better come with me.” She stepped out from behind the desk and began leading Chris towards the door opposite it, just as an Elezen man in similar robes came through. “Ah, Brother Maroile!” the woman said. “Excellent timing.”

“Sister Madelle,” he greeted her. “Did you need something?”

“This young woman,” she gestured to Chris, “requires lessons.”

Maroile frowned at that. “You know Brother E-Sumi-Yan prefers to induct new guildmembers personally,” he said, his tone somewhere between confused and accusatory.

“Ah, no,” Madelle corrected, “not  _ conjury _ lessons.”

Maroile blinked in surprise, then looked at Chris appraisingly. “Quite unusual for someone your age to not know the basics,” he said probingly.

“It’s a long story,” Chris deflected, “and I’m kind of in a hurry.”

The man’s slightly weather-worn face briefly flickered into a frown, but he nodded. “I should warn you, however,” he said, “that given the lateness of the hour, we may need to cut your lessons short and resume them tomorrow.”

“All the more reason not to put them off,” Chris practically growled.

Maroile frowned again, but at least took the hint. “Quite right,” he said, turning back to the door he’d just entered. “Come along then.” He strode through the door, beckoning her to follow. “But in the future,” he added sternly as it closed behind them, “do please mind your tone.  _ You _ are the one who came to  _ us _ asking a favor, after all.”

Chris scowled and nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Maroile led them down a winding tunnel, taking several apparently arbitrary turns, until they arrived at a small room, with only a pair of chairs and a small table with a lantern.

“Why don’t you take a seat,” he said, already doing the same, “and then we can begin.” She did, and he clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “Now, first thing’s first, have you attuned to the aetheryte here?”

Chris nodded slowly, not sure how that was relevant.

“That simplifies things quite a bit, then!” he said jovially. “You see, the greatest barrier to learning to manipulate aether is that, quite often, it will exist in a dormant state within a person until it is coaxed into motion, and attuning to an aetheryte is one of the simplest methods of doing so. Since you’ve done so, you should, with just a bit of focus, be able to feel your aether resonating with it.”

Now that he mentioned it, she could feel something. A sort of warmth in the back of her mind that she normally associated with Ichaival; it hadn’t registered as anything special before now because it was so familiar, but if what this guy was saying was true… “I think I can,” she said aloud.

“Good,” her tutor replied. “Try to direct it—no need to produce any particular effect, just ensure that it’s responsive to your will.”

Chris scowled at the vague instruction, but gave it a shot anyway—and it worked! She could feel a warmth pooling in her chest, and with just the slightest mental nudge, it moved first to one arm, then the other. Then, with a minor exertion of will, she  _ pushed _ it out her fingertips, and watched as tiny motes of light spilled forth. “Woah,” she whispered, but the display was not the sole cause of her wonderment. The feeling of her aether moving through her body was eerily similar to one she got when performing certain attacks with Ichaival. Maybe even identical?  _ Wait, have I been doing magic the whole time? _

“Excellent!” her tutor said, oblivious to her revelation. “You seem to have quite the knack for it. Did you require any further instruction?”

“Uh, yeah,” Chris said, redirecting her attention. “Luciane said something about ‘wind-aspected’ aether? And I guess I should learn how to teleport, too, while I’m here.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, standing. “Though if we’re going to cover one element, we may as well cover all of them. Just wait here a moment while I get some teaching aids.”

He left the room, and Chris occupied herself experimenting with her aether, testing how many distinct clumps she could separate it into, how small or large they could be, how quickly it could be moved, and more. She was about to test whether channeling it to her legs would let her jump higher when Maroile returned, carrying a small box full of softly glowing crystals of different colors. Chris looked at him like a deer in headlights, but he just chuckled good-naturedly as he went back to his seat, setting the box beside him.

“You’re hardly the first student I’ve had testing how aether can augment their physical abilities the moment I turn my back,” he said. “I shan’t discourage you; in fact, I understand it’s a crucial skill for adventurers.” He looked, briefly, like he wanted to say more on the subject, but decided against it. “Anyroad,” he shook his head, “aether, as I’m sure you know, is divided into six elements, also called ‘essences’ or ‘aspects’: ice, water, wind, lightning, fire, and earth.” She didn’t, but he didn’t have to know that. “When we teach children, we prefer to go through each element one at a time and have the children meditate on it before we let them try to produce it, but you don’t strike me as having the patience for it.”

“I’m plenty patient,” Chris objected. “I’m just also in a hurry.”  _ Which I already told you _ .

He shrugged apologetically. “Well, the end result is about the same,” he said. “But to get back on track, once the children are ready, we give them crystals of the appropriate element and have them try to mimic its aether.” He reached into the box and took out a crystal, seemingly at random—an orange-red one—and held it out to her. “Here,” he said, “can you feel the aether within?”

Chris touched her hand to the crystal, unsure of how to go about it. Then, almost on a whim, she channeled a bit of her own to her fingertips—

_ A sunbeam shining cheerfully through a window. _

_ The Nephilim, ablaze with power enough to end the world. _

_ The smell of food cooking over a campfire surrounded by friends. _

_ Burning rubble hiding the bodies she knows are beneath. _

_ A hand gently clasped in her own. _

_ FIRE _

—Her breath caught in her chest as the familiar-yet-not sensations ran through her on a level that defied understanding, but she could already see what to do. “Yeah,” she said with a steadiness that surprised her, already  _ twisting _ her aether in a way she didn’t have the vocabulary for, “I think I can manage that.” She lifted her hand from the crystal, turned her palm up, and with a slight  _ push _ , a tiny tongue of flame licked upwards.

“My goodness!” her tutor gasped. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone manage that so quickly!” He met her eyes, as though searching for an explanation.

Chris shrugged helplessly.  _ How should  _ I _ know what’s going on? I didn’t even know I could _ do  _ that this morning! _

He seemed to understand her meaning well enough, even if she didn’t say a word, and turned back to the box of crystals. “Well, let’s just, uh, go through the rest of these then?” he suggested.

It was a quick process. Wind came almost as naturally to Chris as fire, which seemed to surprise her tutor somewhat. Earth and water were slower, but still took less than a minute each. She had more difficulty with ice and lightning (the latter of which also gave her unpleasant flashbacks), but even those she managed with, according to Maroile, “almost unheard-of alacrity.”

Once he’d taken a minute to calm down, he sat with a sigh. “You said you also wished to learn Teleport and Return, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s a fair bit more complicated than simply transposing elements,” he said, “but in a similar fashion, it’s easier to learn if you know what it’s supposed to feel like. To that end, have you ever Teleported side-along before?”

“Uh, yyyes?” Chris said, thinking back to her unplanned lunar trip. “But I’m pretty sure the mechanism was different.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, for starters, there was no aetheryte involved,” Chris said, which Maroile looked split between horrified and intrigued by. “Instead there was this little crystal thing that they threw on the ground, and then everyone around it teleported a couple seconds later.” Chris paused in reflection. “Also, I don’t think it quite worked properly, because everyone got a little scattered; I think it’s because we had too many people, though.”

“How fascinating,” Maroile said, seeming utterly enthralled. “Have you any idea how such a device was constructed?”

Chris shrugged. “Probably some kind of alchemy,” she said dismissively.

Maroile, however, looked pensive. “Truly?” he said. “Perhaps you might broach the idea to the Alchemists’ Guild if you’re ever in Ul’dah, then.” Chris made a mental note to visit them, though for a very different reason. “Anyroad,” her tutor continued, “what do you recall of the journey?”

“Not much,” Chris admitted. “We were in one place, they threw it down, it got really bright for a couple seconds, and then we were…”  _ on the moon _ , “somewhere else.”

Maroile frowned thoughtfully. “’A different mechanism,’ indeed,” he said. “I suppose we must fall back on more conventional instruction, then.” What followed was nearly an hour of instruction interspersed with defining terms and reluctant meditation, after which he was at last satisfied Chris wouldn’t lose an arm in transit, and allowed her to attempt to cast the spell.

She repeated the incantation he’d taught her, feeling only a little silly doing so, and felt her aether respond. It began as a faint tingle that rapidly spread throughout her body, then a sound of rushing wind—or perhaps water—in her ears, and then her awareness shrinking down to a single point—

—And rapidly expanding again as she found herself next to the aetheryte. She stumbled on suddenly-unsteady legs as her stomach tried to do a triple-corkscrew backflip, but managed to save herself the indignity of falling and vomiting.

A Wood Wailer approached her, a baby-faced Hyuran boy with bluish-grey hair. “First time teleporting?” he said sympathetically. He met Chris’s baleful glare with a sheepish smile. “Now, sorry to make a bad day worse,” he continued, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you two hundred gil.”

“What for?” Chris demanded.

“Many aetheryte camps were destroyed in the Calamity,” he explained, “and rebuilding them was hardly a small expense. The so-called ‘Teleport toll’ was implemented to repay the money that was lent in aid of that.”

“Oh,” Chris said, her anger deflated. “Sorry for snapping at you,” she grumbled as she handed over the money.

“It’s quite alright,” the Wailer replied congenially. “But if you feel you must make it up to me, you can do so by letting me buy you a—”

“No.”

He at least had the good sense to retreat silently to his post.

Chris took another minute to steady herself, at which point Maroile arrived and began congratulating her for being the most gifted student he’d ever had. “Incidentally,” he said, an edge of suspicion entering his voice, “are you absolutely certain you’ve never used aether before?”

Chris frowned. “Less sure than I was when we started,” she said.

Maroile pursed his lips with an intrigued hum, but said no more on the topic.

A few more words were exchanged, and then Chris was left alone—well, as alone as one could be on the busiest thoroughfare in a city of thousands. Her gaze turned in the direction of the Archers’ Guild.  _ Luciane _ did _ say I should come back when I was done at the Conjurers’ Guild _ , she thought. A short walk later and she was once again in the now-familiar training hall.

“Chris,” Luciane greeted her with mild bemusement. “They didn’t toss you out already, did they?”

Chris returned the greeting with a smirk. “Not quite,” she said, taking position at one of the targets and knocking an arrow. “You said I just need to imbue a little wind aether, right?” The guildmaster’s eyes widened in surprised realization as she put word into action, drew back her arrow, and released.

The arrow seemed to fly a bit faster and straighter than Chris expected, but things got  _ really _ interesting when it struck the target. It started with a burst of air, tinted visibly green with wind-aspected aether, which then began swirling around the target. At first, that seemed to be the end of it, but then Chris noticed small nicks and blemishes appearing on the target where the aether-infused air passed. They were tiny things, barely visible, but Chris had no doubt they were the result of this technique.

“That  _ is _ pretty neat,” she muttered.

“Indeed,” Luciane agreed. “Though it’s not potent enough to break skin on its own, it leaves behind a most unpleasant stinging sensation on bare skin, aggravates existing wounds, and weakens armor, which together make for a powerful tool against resilient enemies.”

Chris nodded in understanding, but her mind was already on another topic. “So if Windbite is done by imbuing an arrow with wind-aspected aether,” she said, “can you do the same thing with other elements?”

Luciane looked like she had been expecting such a question. “In theory, yes,” she said, “but earth-, ice-, or water-aspected aether in more than very small amounts will disrupt the arrow’s flight, and fire will often burn it up before it strikes. Fire- or lightning-aspected aether can also easily damage the forest if used carelessly, and their use is therefore… frowned upon.”

“So four out of five are finicky to the point of uselessness and you don’t teach the fifth for cultural reasons,” Chris summarized.

“ _ Near _ -uselessness,” the guildmaster corrected. “I have seen some use earth- or ice-imbued arrows to great effect to slow or bind their enemies; they are merely the exception rather than the rule. For an adventurer such as yourself, learning the trick of it may well be worth the effort.” She gave Chris a sidelong glance. “And considering your apparently prodigious skill at manipulating aether, it might be less effort than I suggested.”

Chris considered that. She  _ had _ taken to this “aether” stuff shockingly quickly, and she’d never say no to a few more tricks up her sleeve. Maybe she could try it out if she got some downtime on the road.

She spent a while longer practicing Windbite, making sure she could fire it off at a moment’s notice, and making some preliminary attempts with other elements, before her stomach noisily reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in several hours. It was dark when she emerged from the guildhall, the night sky painted with unfamiliar constellations, and the streets much emptier than earlier in the day, which made her walk back to the Carline Canopy a quiet one.

The tavern itself, however, was bright and lively, filled with happily conversing patrons and [ jaunty music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIuO3RpMvHg&t=1299s) . Despite the bustle, Chris managed to find an empty table and ordered a meal, which turned out to be shredded venison, chopped potatoes (or popotoes, as they were called in this world), and diced carrots, all slathered in a smoky-sweet sauce and baked into a pie, served alongside a flagon of mead (which Chris quickly replaced with water when she realized it was alcoholic).

After finishing her meal, Chris retired to her room, double-checked her supplies, and then studied the maps she’d been given until her eyelids drooped, and crawled into the (surprisingly comfortable) bed.

She was surprised at how quickly she fell asleep.

Chris woke up the next morning disoriented and still tired, but quickly regained her bearings. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she dressed, she then gathered her things and went out to the tavern floor for a light breakfast—a bowl of thick porridge topped with a variety of sliced fruit and drizzled generously with honey served alongside a surprisingly mild, vaguely flowery black tea, also sweetened with a dollop of honey—then outside to fetch her rented chocobo.

“Ah, Miss Yukine,” the chocobokeep greeted her, looking obnoxiously chipper in the light of the barely-risen sun. “Ready to depart?” Chris nodded, which he returned. He accepted her payment and helped her into the saddle, and then, with a slap to its flank, the bird was off like a rocket.

Well, not really. Her missiles were faster than the chocobo (if not to the extent she would’ve expected), and they certainly didn’t  _ bounce _ like this. On the other hand, they couldn’t navigate an unfamiliar route for her and also weren’t really suitable for long-distance travel in the first place. But it was a moot point anyway because Ichaival was busted.

“Too bad I can’t just get a helicopter ride from S.O.N.G.,” Chris muttered bitterly. Maybe she should have asked Miounne more about that airship pass she’d mentioned. Well, nothing for it now. She could only continue down the path she’d chosen.

On a brighter note, Chris adapted to the chocobo’s gait fairly quickly. However, that came with a significant downside in that she now had nothing to occupy herself except the passing scenery… and her thoughts.

As Chris relearned how to trust others in the wake of the Lunar Attack, she had come to hate being alone. Spending time with her friends (and even two years later, it was strange to think of having friends) helped, as did filling her apartment with reminders of happy memories. But even so, spending any significant length of time alone tended to turn her thoughts inward, and when her thoughts turned inward, they inevitably focused on her failings, her mistakes, her fears and anxieties—especially when, as now, she was already predisposed to worry about external circumstances.

Chris rubbed at her legs to try to alleviate the soreness that had begun to set in, but that could only distract from her swirling thoughts for so long.

Foremost among her worries, naturally, was Tsubasa. Where was she? How had they gotten split up? Was she alright? Was she  _ alive _ ? Was she even on the same world? Chris had no way of knowing, and she  _ hated _ it.

From there her thoughts turned naturally toward the troubles plaguing  _ this _ world. The lingering scars of the Calamity, which supposedly no one could remember in any detail; the invading Garlean Empire, poised to strike at any moment; the mysterious Ascians, who were manipulating the so-called beast tribes to unknown ends from the shadows; and of course, the beast tribes themselves, of whom Chris had only met the bird-like Ixal ( ~~ with their beady eyes staring accusingly from where they lay blee ~~ — _ NO! _ ). Chris couldn’t rule out any of them as the cause of the Gjallarhorn alert, but her gut said the Ascians were the biggest issue.

Which led back to her current situation. On the road, alone, for  _ days _ , chasing a desperate lead in the hopes of finding more information about her target, or at least a hint towards a way home.

And what if she couldn’t? What if this library she was going to was a dead end? Or what if she was wrong and looking into the Ascians was a waste of time? What if she wasn’t even supposed to be here? What if whatever happened with the portal sent her somewhere completely unrelated, leaving Tsubasa to deal with the alert alone? What if Tsubasa got hurt, or worse, because she wasn’t there to back her up?

And she’d circled right back to worrying about Tsubasa, for what felt like the fifth time since she set out.

Chris let out a ragged sigh as her mount rounded a corner and hopped down a small staircase. What if, what if,  _ what if? _ It kept coming back to the fact that she didn’t have enough information. If she knew where Tsubasa was, they could meet up and work together on the other issues. If she knew the cause of the alert, she could focus on that and worry about the rest later. If she knew how to get home, she could get repairs and backup.  _ And if I knew the secret to inner peace, I could reach Nirvana _ , she thought sardonically.

Chris fished a pouch of nuts and dried fruit out of her bag to quiet her grumbling belly as her thoughts continued to spiral. It was as she finished it that she arrived at the thought she had been trying to avoid: What if she was stuck here? A part of her—most of her, even—rejected the idea immediately; between the Gjallarhorn, the magic of this world, and all the other myriad ways of crossing between worlds, there  _ had _ to be a way home. And yet the question persisted: what if there wasn’t? She would adapt, she was sure. Maybe, if she let herself, she would even come to enjoy life here. And maybe, a tiny but increasingly insistent part of her suggested, the others would be bett—

“Fuck  _ off _ with that!” Chris shouted, sending nearby wildlife scattering. Her haze of despair was rapidly burned away by a blaze of fury, which quickly subsided into a simmering anger. Anger both righteous and irrational. Anger at things both grand and petty. Anger at the slavers who’d made her preadolescence hell, at Finé for manipulating the broken girl they’d left behind to her own ends, at the Custodians for not including a  _ goddamn instruction manual _ for their interdimensional crisis detector. Anger at the Ascians, at the Ixal, at the growing soreness in her legs, at this world’s utter lack of comprehensive public transit. But most of all, she was angry at the tiny, treacherous part of her that  _ still _ couldn’t accept that she had friends now; friends who liked, appreciated, and relied on her; friends who laughed and cried with her, who fought and sang by her side; friends who would miss her if she disappeared.

Chris spent the rest of the ride stewing in her impotent, omnidirectional, despair-defying fury, only calming down when she belatedly wondered, after dark fell, if she should have stopped for the night at the last settlement. But once again, the thought occurred too late to act on; Chris hoped that didn’t become a pattern.

Thankfully, it wasn’t much later that she spotted a break in the trees, marked by a lantern atop a signpost. Beyond, strange, glowing flowers emerged from murky swamp water, while rope-and-plank bridges connected a series of large, flat boulders that seemed to be resting atop stunted trees. Following the line of bridges as her mount crossed the first one, Chris could make out a crowd of tents illuminated by lamplight, and above them all, the telltale glow of an aetheryte.

At last, the chocobo drew to a halt, and Chris eagerly dismounted—only to immediately collapse from how stiff her legs were.

The yellow-clad chocobokeep approached with a sympathetic grimace and a helping hand. “First time in the saddle?”

Chris let him help her up with a grateful nod. “Yeah,” she said a little self-consciously. “Probably doesn’t help that I’ve been riding since a little after sunrise.”

“Since sunup?” the man exclaimed, eyes bugging out. “Matron’s teats, girl, what’s got you in such a hurry? Not that it’s any of my business, I suppose,” he added before Chris could do more than scowl. “Anyroad, you’ll want to take a bit of a walk around camp to work some of the stiffness out of your legs, or they’ll hurt worse come morning.”

He then seemed to regard the conversation as over, instead turning his attention to the chocobo, so Chris thanked him, gathered her things, and walked off. After pausing to attune to the aetheryte (and bracing for the sensation of  _ connection _ ), she made a few slow and painful circuits of the camp before eventually settling at the edge of a cooking fire. The group of Wood Wailers and Quivermen gathered around it visibly closed ranks at her approach, a few even deliberately turning away, but Chris paid them no mind, instead digging through her supplies for some semblance of dinner.

She found it in the form of a loaf of hardtack, painstakingly cut in half, slathered in honey, and closed around a slab of smoked venison, which left her with the arduous task of chewing the makeshift sandwich.

The group around the fire watched her struggle with varying degrees of sympathy and disdain, but Chris was content to not interact as long as they were. It was probably for the best, really; after how stressed she made herself on the ride, Chris was one wrong word away from exploding.

After finishing her meal, she took another circuit of the camp, and then, for lack of anything better to do, found an empty tent to lay out her sleeping bag in and settled down for the night. In the dark and quiet, the worries that had plagued her earlier in the day returned full-force, but she was too exhausted to properly consider them, and they swirled together in a haze of anxiety that lulled her into a restless slumber.

When Chris awoke the next morning, the soreness in her legs was much reduced. She did some stretches to hopefully lessen the strain she was about to put on them, had a meager breakfast of an apple and a sticky, honey-glazed bun, and continued her journey south.

Despite the day not being meaningfully different from the previous, no dark thoughts crept into her mind. Chris vaguely recalled learning something about exercise being a good de-stressor; did the fact that she was walking instead of merely clinging to a bizarre yellow horse-bird had an impact? Or maybe the slower pace (and the fact that she had to pay attention to where she was going) allowed the scenery to more effectively distract her. It was even possible that she had simply exhausted her supply of groundless self-criticism.

Chris couldn’t hold back a bark of sarcastic laughter at that thought.

Whatever the reason, her worries remained confined to the back of her mind, leaving her free to take in the surroundings. Rocky outcroppings quickly became more common as the trail began to wind through mountainous passes. When she stopped for lunch (a handful of nuts and some strips of smoked poultry of some kind), she realized that she hadn’t seen any of the truly massive trees that populated the forest in more than an hour. Before much longer, the air rapidly grew dryer, the trees became shorter, wider, and less dense, and the road began to lean ever more westward.

Around midafternoon, the shadows lengthening as the sun crawled towards the western horizon, Chris took a much-needed water break. She noted with some concern that her waterskin was getting a bit light, but reassured herself that, based on what she remembered of her maps, she should be able to reach a place called Highbridge before too much longer; she could refill there. As she stowed the skin, a snapping branch alerted her to something amiss, and she had her bow in hand and arrow knocked in a flash. As she slowly turned to look for the disturbance, a gang of hulking lizardmen emerged from behind rocks and trees, surrounding her.

They were comparable in both height and girth to the few Roegadyn Chris had seen, possibly even larger (and how they managed to sneak up on her with that kind of bulk, she had no idea) and covered in little more than their own dark brown scales. The only thing resembling clothing was pieces of decorated metal hung from strips of brightly-colored cloth wrapped around their waists, arms, or necks. Long, thick tails emerged from their backs, and a second tail-like tendril sprouted from the tops of their heads. Their red eyes glinted with evil intent that also showed in how they bared their viciously sharp teeth, and each of their thick, four-fingered hands wielded some kind of weapon: two spearmen almost directly in front of her, an archer at either side, and—risking a glance behind her—a pair with knuckle dusters at her five and seven. None carried themselves aggressively, but their numbers and formation were threat enough.

Chris mentally swore as she shifted her stance into one less overtly confrontational. “You fellas need something?” she said, carefully measuring her tone; mildly irritated, but unworried. It was an act, though, and from the menacing chuckles the lizardmen let out, they knew it.

Suddenly, her instincts shouted at her to move, and she whirled around, just in time to see the staff-wielder that had been perfectly in her blind spot point his staff at her. “ _ Sleep _ ,” he intoned, and waves of pinkish energy issued forth.

Chris instantly felt her eyelids droop and her limbs grow heavy. She staggered, dropping her bow, and managed one last furious glare at the mage’s smug face before darkness enveloped her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: You might think you know, but you have no idea.
> 
> Also, this chapter has _deleted scenes_ , the first of which you can find [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491834), and the second I'll be posting in a few days.


	5. Go to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited to post this chapter, because it has the first scene I wrote for this story (though it has seen some significant revision since then).
> 
> I actually finished this a few weeks ago, but held it back to motivate myself to write the next chapter, which has worked out pretty well; I think it's around 70% done, and most of what's left is dialogue, which I'm usually good at.

Chris woke up to rough floor, a rocky ceiling, and a throbbing pain in the back of her head.

_Oh right_ , she thought as she sat up, _I got jumped by lizardmen on the way to the magic library_. She let out a heavy sigh. “Geez, how fucked is my life that that seems halfway normal?” she muttered. Shaking her head to clear it, Chris took stock.

Her hands were bound behind her back (and didn’t clink, so probably with rope), but her belongings, including her bow and arrows, were still in place. Her surroundings, however, were much less inviting than a Gridanian infirmary.

The sounds were the first thing that registered: slowly dripping water, crackling flames, and quiet sobbing (the kind of sobbing, Chris knew from experience, that resulted from being reprimanded for crying too loudly). And looking around gave her a pretty good idea why. She was in a dark and dingy cavern, lit only by two torches beside the entrance and a third in the middle of the chamber. Around the latter was huddled a group of prisoners ( _other_ prisoners, if Chris was honest) of all races and genders, most wearing expressions of resigned despair. In the shadows of the entryway, almost invisible but for the firelight glinting off of their weapons and metal charms, stood a pair of spear-wielding lizardmen. In the far corner, out of reach of the torches’ glow, was a small pool, water occasionally dripping into it from the cave roof.

As surreptitiously as she could, Chris scooted towards the closest of her fellow prisoners, a grizzled and stoic-faced Hyur, and leaned in as close as she was comfortable. “Any idea what’s going on?” she whispered to him.

He glanced at her briefly, then returned to his apparent staring contest with the guards. “Little more than you, I’m afraid,” he rasped out of the corner of his mouth. “But if I were to hazard a guess, the Amalj’aa mean to give us as an offering to their god.”

The corner of Chris’s mouth turned down in a mix of horror and disgust, then shook her head. “I’m not about to stick around for that,” she muttered, gathering her focus. She began murmuring the incantation for Teleport, felt the tingle in her aether, heard the rushing water—

—felt a spear haft collide with her head, shattering her focus. “Be warned, scaleless one,” the guard hissed, “we shall not be so merciful a second time.” He moved back to his post at the cave entrance, keeping his eyes on her the entire time.

Chris followed him with a heated glare until he vanished into the shadows again. “Okay, so teleporting’s out,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “What other options do I have?”

“Not much,” the man beside her replied. “You can try and cause enough ruckus that they kill you for it—” Chris decided to call that Plan Z, “—or you can pray for rescue.”

“What are the odds of that?” Chris asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

He snorted with grim amusement. “Marginally worse than gil coming out a chocobo’s arse,” he said.

Further conversation was preempted by another Amalj’aa entering the cave. This one carried a staff set with a reddish pink gem and topped with sharp horns. Elaborately carved metal plates hung from a cord around his neck, and a bright red scarf decorated with small gems was wrapped around his head-tendril. “Rejoice, heathens,” he proclaimed, spreading his arms wide, “for your worthless lives shall soon have meaning!” He stepped into the room, followed by another pair of spearmen, and began pacing back and forth in front of the captives, examining them. At length, he began singling people out, who the spearmen roughly hauled to their feet and grouped up near the entrance. And then his eyes landed on Chris.

She met his gaze with a burning glare and held it for a long moment before he thumped his tail on the ground and bared his teeth in a reptilian approximation of a grin. “ _This_ one has _fire_!” he declared. “Lord Ifrit will be pleased with her!”

One of the guards stepped forward and pulled her up by the arm, then shoved her over to the rest of the selected group. Chris bristled at the rough treatment, but forced herself not to lash out.

The staff-wielder (shaman? priest?) glanced over his choices and nodded. “This will do for now,” he said. “The rest can wait.” He strode out into the darkness, followed by one of the spearmen that had accompanied him. The second shoved one of the prisoners towards the passage, the message clear, and the group filed out.

They were led through dark and twisting tunnels, lit only very sparsely with dim torches, for nearly three minutes before they began to slope upwards. In the darkness, hopefully unseen by her captors, Chris discreetly discharged wind aether into the ropes around her wrists, aiming to weaken them in case an opportunity to escape arose.

They at last emerged into a wide hollow between high sandstone cliffs. The flat ground was sandy and barren, with only sparse patches of grass and a pair of wide acacia-like trees. The area was dotted with unlit metal torches and other small Amalj’aa-made structures whose purposes eluded Chris. Off to her left was what seemed like the only other path out, while to the right was a gap in the cliffs through which the sun, barely risen though it was, beat down mercilessly. Another quartet of Amalj’aa spearmen awaited them, and quickly moved into position around the group of prisoners.

“Lord of the Inferno, hearken to our plea!” the guards chanted. “Lord of the Inferno, deliver us from our misery!”

The priest then stepped forward and held his staff aloft with both hands. “O mighty Ifrit, Lord of the Inferno!” he called toward the sun. “Your humble servants beseech You! Grace us with Your divine presence!”

The sun, low in the eastern sky, seemed to glow brighter and redder as the sky around it darkened until it was almost as dark as night, with only a dull red haze along the horizon. A blazing streak shot upwards from the sun, leaving behind a hollow orange ring encircling a black void, and at the peak of its flight exploded in a burst of flames that briefly illuminated the darkened sky. And from the short-lived cloud of fire and smoke plummeted _something_ that landed heavily in the middle of the hollow, revealing to all its terrible majesty. The creature’s frame was enormous, twice Chris’s height or more, even crouched on all fours as it was. Though it was vaguely reptilian, its hide was not covered in scales, but rather seemed to be made of freshly-cooled magma, still glowing molten orange in some places. This was especially apparent on the large spikes sprouting from its back and elbows, its wickedly sharp claws, and its large, menacing horns. Its eyes, like two burning coals, glimmered with perverse delight as it looked down at the assembly.

“O mighty Ifrit!” the priest said, lowering his staff. “We bring before You ignorant savages who know not Your godhead!” He stepped aside to give the manifested god a clear view of the assembled prisoners—the sacrifices. “If it please You, Lord,” he continued, “scorch their heathen souls with Your cleansing flame, and mark them as Your own!”

Chris distractedly noted a few reacting with muttered curses or choked sobs as the so-called Lord of the Inferno looked them over, his orange eyes burning with an eager hunger. “Pitiful children of man!” he boomed. “By my breath I claim you! Arise once more as my loyal minions! Feed my flames with your faith, and all who stand against us shall burn!”

_Is he going to_ brainwash _us?_ Chris thought with a pang of terror as the monstrosity reared up, a flickering blue glow coalescing in its sharp-toothed maw. He then leaned forward and breathed a wave of blue fire toward the group.

_No! I won’t be anyone’s pawn again!_ Even as she flinched away, the defiant thought sparked a flare of warmth in her chest, one which had nothing to do with the blue flames washing over her—it in fact seemed to actively repel their searing not-heat, encompassing her in a familiar phantom embrace. Cracking her eyes open, Chris saw that the flames themselves were being repelled as well, by a barely visible reddish barrier, shimmering faintly just above her skin.

_Ichaival…?_ Chris wondered.

Further musing was cut off by a weak, almost timid moan of, “O mighty Ifrit.” Turning, Chris saw it had come from one of the other sacrifices, all of whom, though physically unharmed, had prostrated themselves before the fiery monster and soon began crying out his praises.

“What the hell?” Chris murmured, aghast.

But her unchanged demeanor drew the attention of the priest. “Impossible!” he cried out. “By what sorcery do you resist my master's will!? Could it be...?” He stepped back in shock. “Your soul already belongs to another!? Yes, that is the only explanation!” The rest of the crowd began backing away at this pronouncement, most wary, some with outright fear.

Chris was pretty sure that _wasn’t_ the case, but didn’t think saying so was a good idea.

But before she could formulate a response, Ifrit interjected. “Forsooth, thy frail mortal frame can serve as vessel to the blessing of but One. Yet I smell not the taint of another upon thee...” His gaze sharpened on Chris. “The truth of thine allegiance waxeth clear—thou art of the godless blessed's number. The Paragons warned of thine abhorrent kind. Thine existence is not to be suffered.”

Without further preamble, he lashed out with a claw, and Chris barely jerked away in time.

“My flames shall consume thy flesh and soul both!” Ifrit roared, slamming a clawed hand against the ground, and a ring of fire surrounded the area, leaving Chris trapped with the primal.

“Dammit,” she muttered, “I’m not supposed to be right up close like this!”

Ifrit, however, had no such issues, and swung out with another claw. Chris furiously backpedaled, tearing through her weakened bindings ( _Good thing that worked_ , she thought distractedly), and clumsily unslung her bow to fire off a Windbite. It struck, and Ifrit growled as the aether-charged air began swirling around him, then replied by spitting a gout of flame. Chris leapt away, but Ifrit charged her, swiping with his claws again, and she only narrowly avoided them.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Chris swore, firing another arrow as she tried desperately to gain some distance, but it glanced harmlessly off Ifrit’s igneous hide.

“Succumb to the inferno!” he commanded. As if in response, the ground beneath Chris’s feet cracked and glowed, and she barely threw herself aside before it erupted in a pillar of flame.

“Seriously?” she exclaimed, pulling herself up. “How the hell is _that_ fair?” But he was upon her again before she could complain further. She twirled around a claw swipe, leapt back from a gout of flame, and fired back with another Windbite, which at least seemed to have more of an effect than an unaugmented arrow.

Ifrit rapidly closed what little distance she had gained, and Chris mentally swore as she ducked another swipe of his claws. She needed to find a way to end this, _fast_. The sweltering heat and constant movement were rapidly draining her, and stamina had never been her strong point in the first place, while the burning god seemed tireless; if this turned into a battle of attrition—

With a curse, she stumbled, twisting her ankle, and her shot flew wide. Ifrit approached with agonizing slowness, seeming to take a sadistic glee in her helplessness.

“Thy soul shall burn for all eternity!” he declared as he reared up, flames gathering in his maw.

“Go to hell!” Chris roared, knocking a last, desperate arrow. And as she drew it back, the [song](https://youtu.be/hemVeGXV8UY) in her heart spilled out of her lips.

The arrow, glowing crimson now, leapt from the bow with a sound like thunder, crossing the distance in an instant, and struck Ifrit dead in the center of his chest—

—and plowed right through him.

The Lord of the Inferno looked down at himself in shock, red motes of aether already floating off from the large hole that now adorned his chest. His gaze turned back to the archer before him, her form momentarily suffused with the strange aether that empowered her arrow, before it faded—and so did he, dissolving before her eyes.

Chris, meanwhile, was also stunned. For the briefest of moments, she had felt Ichaival’s familiar warmth, enough that its activation chant passed her lips, almost of its own accord. And that had apparently resulted in her final shot blasting through a monster that, only moments earlier, seemed all but impervious to her arrows. But nothing else; no transformation, no distinctive red-and-white armor, no crimson crossbows, and, perhaps most upsetting of all, no music to draw out the song in her heart. “What the hell is going on?” she muttered, looking down at her damaged Symphogear pendant. The dim, flickering light was playing havoc on her eyes, but it looked, for a moment, as though the crack on it had shrunk slightly.

The ring of fire died down, revealing that the area had emptied of onlookers at some point. Moments later, the sound of footsteps carried down the westward path. Chris turned to see a group of men and women—not Amalj’aa, thankfully—running into the hollow. Most carried swords and shields and wore what seemed to be a uniform consisting of yellow-trimmed grey shirts, brown pants bound with leather straps below the knee, and simple leather shoes. They carried on toward the cave where Chris and the other prisoners had been held, while the last, a white-haired Hyur wearing a black tunic over a white shirt, dark pants, and metal-framed shin guards attached to leather sandals, drew to a halt in front of Chris and extended a hand, which she accepted warily, but gratefully.

“That was quite a display you put on,” he said as he pulled her to her feet.

Chris’s face contorted as she rested her weight on her twisted ankle, and she reached down to carefully feel it through her boot, ignoring the man’s concerned outburst. “No swelling,” she announced. “Should be good to walk on it, but just in case…” She dug into her bag to pull out one of the purported healing potions she’d purchased back in Gridania. It was a small vial with barely more than a mouthful of translucent blue liquid. Without giving herself time to second-guess herself, she uncorked it and downed the contents, then stowed the empty bottle back in her bag. Almost immediately, she felt the fatigue and soreness in her limbs ease, and an experimental roll of her ankle produced almost no pain.

“Say,” the man said, glancing Chris up and down appraisingly, “your name wouldn’t happen to be Chris Yukine, would it?”

Chris returned his look with a suspicious glare. “Who wants to know?” she all but growled.

The man raised his hands placatingly. “Apologies,” he said unapologetically, then gave her what he probably thought was a charming smile. “My name is Thancred Waters. Papalymo advised me to keep an eye out for you.”

“So you’re in his secret club too, huh,” Chris said, looking him over more critically. He didn’t look like much—then again, neither did Ogawa, and he was arguably the second-strongest member of S.O.N.G.

Thancred worked his mouth fruitlessly for a moment before finding his voice again. “I think calling it a ‘club’ is a little infantilizing.”

Further conversation was forestalled by a ferocious growl and stomping footsteps. Chris and Thancred both whirled to see an Amalj’aa charging towards them and brandishing his metal-clad fists. As Chris knocked and drew an arrow, Thancred leapt into the air with a wholly unnecessary (though admittedly quite stylish) flip. His hand flashed out, and a trio of daggers sprouted in the Amalj’aa’s face and chest. On seeing that, Chris wondered if her offhanded comparison to Ogawa was closer to the mark than she’d thought.

Thancred let out an irritable grunt as he landed. “Persistent lot,” he groused quietly. He looked back towards the cave, and his face brightened. “Ah, but here come the Bloodsworn with the rest of the captives.”

Chris followed his gaze, and indeed, the uniformed group that had accompanied him were escorting the prisoners out.

“No less than I’d expect from the Flame General’s handpicked men,” Thancred said with a note of pride. He then turned back to Chris with a serious look. “I’m sure you have many questions, but this is not the place, nor am I, frankly, the person for most of them. But I do have _some_ answers, and I know who can give you the rest.”

“And all I need to do to get them is agree to join you,” Chris guessed. She privately thought that even Shirabe would be hard-pressed to match the flat stare she was giving Thancred.

But he waved her off. “Not at all,” he said. “You can hardly be expected to join a group whose goals you don’t even know—but, as I said, that will have to come later.”

Chris held her stare a moment longer, searching him for any sign of deception, and finding none. “Fine,” she said, followed by a muttered, “It’s not like I have any better ideas.”

“Excellent,” Thancred said, either not hearing or not acknowledging her muttered afterthought. “Our first stop—and theirs—” he gestured to the rescuers and now ex-prisoners, “—will be Camp Drybone.” With nothing further to say, he made his way over to the larger group, and Chris followed.

Despite her recalcitrance, as the procession made its way up the path, Chris looked forward to finally getting some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: joining the club.


	6. Someone Reached Their Hand Out to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I may have been a bit too conservative when I said this was 70% done, because I finished it... I think it was _technically_ the next day by that point.
> 
> Anyway, I also edited the previous chapter a little starting just after " _I won’t be anyone’s pawn again!_ " It's nothing vital, just conveys a bit more of what I wanted it to, but you might want to reread it.
> 
> Also, important news at the end of the chapter!

The darkness of the pseudo-eclipse quickly gave way to proper daylight as the group marched on, and Amalj’aa sigils stopped dotting the scenery not long after. Thancred told Chris then that she could start asking questions, but made it clear that he couldn’t answer all of them—either for concern of being overheard or because he would do a poor job of it.

Chris had an abundance of questions, most of which she was reluctant to ask where they could be overheard, and many of the remainder were mostly unlikely to yield useful answers. She instead settled on one more immediately relevant. “Was that really a god?”

“Of  _ course _ you start with the difficult one,” Thancred muttered, pinching his nose. Regaining his composure, he continued, “That’s actually a matter of some debate, among the few scholars who study such things. Naturally, no one in Eorzea wants to acknowledge gods other than the Twelve, but the primals the beast tribes worship are certainly more than figments of imagination given form.”

It sounded like Chris had unwittingly stumbled into something complicated. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

Thancred shrugged. “Couldn’t say,” he said almost flippantly, and Chris felt almost let down at how quickly the topic dried up. “I don’t study such things.” His eyes glinted suspiciously as they slid over to Chris. “But I get the sense you didn’t ask out of some crisis of faith,” he probed.

Chris scowled at him briefly before turning her eyes forward again. “Let’s just say that I have certain expectations for what a god is capable of,” she said, thinking of Shem-Ha’s absurd abilities, “and that thing fell way short.”

Thancred’s head whipped towards her, eyes wide and mouth agape. “I… see,” he said slowly, sounding like he very much wanted to press her for more information.

“But speaking of capabilities,” Chris continued, “what was that thing with the sun?”

“Now that I actually  _ can _ answer,” Thancred said. “It’s well-documented that high concentrations of elemental aether can cause unusual localized weather effects: strangely colored lightning, spots of calm in a windstorm, things of that nature. And since primals are, at their core, high concentrations of aether given life and form, they often produce such effects where they make their lairs.”

“So it wasn’t a real eclipse?”

“No,” Thancred confirmed. “It would have only been visible for about half a malm, and it’s probably faded by now.”

A halt was called for lunch shortly after, putting a hold on their conversation. During the meal, Chris noticed a few of the uniformed men and women—the Bloodsworn, Thancred called them—giving her odd looks, but none approached or spoke to her.

When the march resumed, Chris found her eyes drawn to the [tattoos](https://gamerescape.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/lore24tat1.png) on the sides of Thancred’s neck. They were perfectly mirrored and done in a dark purple, a vertical line that tapered to a point at the bottom and split at the top, one branch creating a small hook, while the other jutted diagonally upwards a short way before almost doubling back until it barely kissed the vertical line before swooping away. Tilting her head, Chris found it looked almost like a very stylized gun. On reflection, she recalled that Papalymo and Yda had similar or even identical tattoos in the same location.

Her scrutiny, naturally, did not escape Thancred’s notice. “Is there something on my face?” he asked, rubbing his jaw self-consciously.

“Will I have to get a tattoo?” Chris said by way of response.

“Oh,” Thancred said, half-laughing. “No, this bit of ink marks my membership in a very different club. This, you see, is known as the Archon’s mark, which in Sharlayan is granted to those who demonstrate exceptional mastery of their chosen field—mine being survival and intelligence gathering, lest you wonder.”

“So Papalymo and Yda also having it is a coincidence?” Chris asked suspiciously.

“Less a coincidence and more a… consequence of how our organization was formed,” Thancred said evasively. “But that’s a story for another time.”

They fell into an uneasy silence after that lasted the rest of the trek. When at last they arrived at Camp Drybone—which turned out to be a settlement mostly carved into the walls of a large sinkhole on the edge of a vast, dry prairie, though based on the crumbling masonry around the edges, the sinkhole was a recent development—the sun was nearly hidden behind a rocky ridge to the west. Chris took a moment to attune to the aetheryte— _ connection _ —before following Thancred to the inn, a literal hole-in-the-wall floored and walled with stone bricks. It had a small common area with only a single small table and a pair of chairs set to the side, dimly lit but unexpectedly cozy. A wall-to-wall counter marked off the administrative area, covered in a lush, red carpet, where a Lalafell on a small stepladder rifled through a filing cabinet. A doorway to the left led to a hallway deeper into the building and offered a peek into one of the rooms, which was similarly carpeted. If not for the dim lighting and the conspicuous lack of windows, Chris could almost forget she was practically underground. Thancred purchased a room and meal—a thick, meaty stew served with a piece of flatbread—for each of them.

“So what made you take up adventuring?” Thancred asked over the meal, having apparently had enough of the by now oppressive silence between them.

Chris could hardly blame him, though she wasn’t thrilled with his choice of topic. “Why’d I start, huh?” she mused quietly, thinking back to those early days with Finé. “I guess… revenge.”

Thancred’s eyes bugged out as he struggled to swallow his mouthful of stew. “Against whom, dare I ask?”

“The whole world, basically.” Chris shook her head ruefully. “I was stupid, and angry, and  _ sick _ of being used, and jumped at the first opportunity to do something about it.” She sighed into her stew. “But that was years ago. I’ve got things to protect now—a place to call home, a dream for the future, friends who led me out of that darkness and would do it again…” She looked up to see Thancred watching her intently, his meal forgotten. For a moment, he seemed like a completely different person.

“Well,” he said suddenly, and the spell was broken, his devil-may-care attitude back in full force, though it seemed somewhat forced, “I’m hardly in a position to judge someone for sordid beginnings.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I spent my youth as a pickpocket on the streets of Limsa Lominsa, and only got to where I am today because I was shown a better path by one of my would-be victims.”

“Huh,” Chris said.

They lapsed into silence again, but a much more comfortable one, both content with the common ground they had found. After finishing their meal, they bade each other a cursory “good night” and retired to their respective rooms.

As Chris lay in bed, waiting for sleep, her thoughts drifted. This marked the end of her fourth day in Eorzea, this strange land of magic and monsters. Most previous Gjallarhorn alerts had wrapped up by this point, and she was only just beginning to find answers. The Commander and the rest back home were probably getting worried. But Chris couldn’t shake the feeling that this would become an absolute fiasco on the scale of Jormungandr or Tesla. That uneasy thought chased her to sleep, giving her nebulous dreams of chasing some vague “threat” across worlds.

But the troubling dreams faded quickly the next morning as she sleepily got dressed. Thancred was waiting for her in the inn’s common area with breakfast: more flatbread, baked fresh and lightly steaming, a bowl of yogurt topped with a variety of fruit Chris couldn’t identify offhand and sprinkled with toasted nuts, and a pitcher of coffee alongside smaller dishes of cream and sugar (the latter of which Chris used copiously). Chris groggily acknowledged Thancred’s attempts at small talk, but by the end of the meal was feeling properly lucid.

“Ready to go, then?” Thancred asked.

Chris nodded. “You never mentioned where we’re going, though.”

“Not too much further,” he replied. “I’d normally take my time with this journey, but I think it’s best we get you introduced soonest. To that end…” He gallantly extended his hand with a half-bow and a charming smile that had Chris rolling her eyes, but she took it nonetheless. When she did, he clasped it tightly and began incanting a Teleport spell, his eyes closed and brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Aether began swirling around him with a sound like rushing wind, and Chris felt her own aether tingle in response. She watched his form collapse into a single point even as her own awareness shrank to a pinprick—

—And expanded again in an unfamiliar plaza next to a woozy and wobbling Thancred.

“And that’s why I prefer the scenic route,” he muttered. Seeing Chris’s attention on him, he tried to compose himself. “I’m going to get us some chocobos. Shan’t be a moment.”

As he paid the teleport fee and walked off, Chris took the opportunity to attune to the aetheryte, then examined her surroundings. Though her first impression had been a plaza, it was really more of a wide boulevard. Chocobos pulled wagons this way and that along the cobbled road, while yet more wagons were parked between merchant stalls along its sides, being loaded, unloaded, or checked over. In one direction, the road passed through a portcullis in a high stone wall, while in the other, it disappeared into a tunnel in the rocky cliffs surrounding the town’s other three sides. The buildings were squat stone things capped with conical metal roofs, and had sheets of brightly-colored cloth strung between them as makeshift awnings against the already-blazing sun. The people, of whom pointed-eared Lalafells seemed to be a majority, mostly wore multiple layers of loose, light-colored robes. Most who didn’t wore identical chain shirts with red leather straps, had identical curved swords strapped to their hips, and carried themselves with authoritative swagger—Chris didn’t let her gaze linger on them too long.

True to his word, Thancred returned shortly, leading a pair of chocobos by the reins. No sooner had they mounted up than the birds took off. They followed the road into the tunnel, which turned out to descend quite sharply, and was clearly man-made. The walls and floor were covered in stone bricks, and the roof supported with periodic wooden beams, each one hanging a lantern as well. At the top of the slope was a heavy winch being turned carefully by a burly Hyur, allowing the connected platform, loaded with crates, to descend safely down its metal track.

At the bottom, they emerged from the tunnel into a rocky wetland. Cobblestone pathways lined with lampposts crossed the shallow water between small patches of dry earth. Here and there rose high stone pillars supporting winding earthen bridges, from which leafy vines hung low. Scattered about were ruins of a past civilization—crumbling arches, toppled pillars, and collapsed statues, all weathered and worn. Swarms of bugs gathered here and there, and the calls of birds and beasts filled the air.

At the other end of the wetland was another line of cliffs and another tunnel through them, of a similar style to the previous, but without the incline, and beyond it was a (rather redundant, in Chris’s opinion) stone wall. The chocobos stopped just inside the gate to let them dismount, and Chris bent over to massage her stiff thighs.

“Come on,” Thancred urged. “We’re nearly there.”

He led her through the bustling port town—the sound of crashing waves, unable to be completely drowned out by the general hubbub of business, was a dead giveaway, even if the smell of salt in the air wasn’t—and Chris took in the sights. Just next to the gate was a well-kept plaza which prominently featured a large bronze statue of a mustachioed Lalafell pointing triumphantly into the distance. Outside the plaza, the stone buildings of the town were, with few exceptions, small, flat-roofed, and tightly packed. But as the streets passed, the buildings increasingly gave way to tents of merchants hawking their wares, dancers and musicians performing in the shade of palm trees, and dockworkers carrying barrels and crates to and fro. Thancred deftly navigated the crowds, leading Chris to a building like any other, situated beside a small, almost abandoned dock intended for smaller vessels.

Just inside, a Lalafell in a pink tunic, lilac hair poking out from beneath a feathered red beret, sat at a small table, an open book and an array of papers spread before her, singing softly as she jotted down this and that. The room was warmly lit by a pair of lanterns on opposite walls, and behind the table a staircase descended into some kind of basement.

Thancred cleared his throat, and the Lalafell yelped in surprise, throwing her hands up. With indignant motions, she set down her quill pen, stood on her chair, and turned to face Thancred, violet eyes alight with fury. “Thancred!” she scolded. “How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me?!”

“I was hardly  _ sneaking _ ,” the man protested. “I keep telling you we should get a bell for that door.”

“And  _ I _ keep telling  _ you _ we haven’t the coin for it!” the Lalafell countered. She sighed heavily. “Well, welcome back regardless. And who is this?” She turned her gaze towards Chris.

“This is Chris Yukine,” Thancred answered, “the one Papalymo mentioned.”

“Oh!” the Lalafell said, eyes widening. “She’s confirmed, then?”

Thancred’s mouth turned downwards. “Perhaps not as thoroughly as we might like,” he said, “but she slew Ifrit single-handedly.”

“She  _ what _ ?” The Lalafell practically flinched back, arms spread wide in shock. Chris was mildly impressed she didn’t fall off her chair. “I suppose that explains why you’re back so soon,” she said, composing herself. “Ah, but where are my manners?” Clearing her throat, she turned back to Chris. “I bid you welcome to the Waking Sands, headquarters of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn!” she said with a small curtsy. “My name is Tataru, and I look forward to assisting you during your time with us.”

“Ah, I’ll be in your care, then,” Chris replied. Which, judging from the looks the others gave her, was not the usual response in this part of the world.

“In any case,” Thancred said before they could be sidetracked further, “I’d best give my report.”

“Oh, of course,” Tataru said. “The Antecedent is in the solar; go right ahead.”

Thancred led the way down the stairs and through the door at the bottom. The hallway on the other side was of a completely different style than the room above. It was brightly lit, lamps hanging from the vaulted ceilings and placed in alcoves along the sandstone-brick walls. Directly ahead, across an intersecting hallway, was another set of double doors, with a pair of Lalafells in bronze cuirasses standing guard. To the left and right, the second hallway terminated in yet more doors, though Thancred opted for the one straight ahead, giving the guards a nod of greeting. Beyond it was another short hallway ending in yet another door.

Thancred knocked twice upon it, and, on receiving a muffled “Enter!” opened it and strode through. The room within was well-appointed without crossing the line into luxurious. Bright lamps hung from the wooden ceiling, and much of the tiled floor was covered in a thick red rug. On the wall to the left was a wardrobe and a well-stocked bookcase, while to the right was an unassuming door, likely a more private room or an emergency escape, and a few potted plants were tactfully placed around the room. At the back of the room, in an elaborate wall-mounted case, were the fragmented remains of some kind of staff. But the clear centerpiece was a large wooden desk in the middle, at which was seated a Hyuran woman who looked up at their entry. Long blond bangs hung down one side of her high-cheeked face, most of the rest of her hair pulled into braids that were then tied into a loose knot at the back of her head. Her clothing struck Chris as needlessly elaborate, with straps and buckles going every which way. Her top looked like unconnected white sleeves held in place on her torso by some kind of harness, with a shock of pink covering her breasts. Down her arms, her sleeves disappeared into fingerless periwinkle gloves that reached nearly to her shoulders, which were in turn partially covered by leather bracers on her forearms and curved plates of metal that seemed more decorative than practical strapped to her upper arms, before at last giving way to her leather-clad fingers. Her dark red skirt, which became visible as she stood, had a clear gap in the front, through which Chris could see similarly colored tights and thighboots.

“Thancred!” she called, the joy shining in her cerulean eyes matching her bright smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to return so soon!”

Thancred’s returning smile seemed to have a bit of bashfulness to it. “Yes, well, there were certain developments in the mission, particularly regarding this fair lady here,” he said, gesturing to Chris.

“Don’t even start with that,” Chris said warningly.

Thancred raised his hands in surrender. “Apologies,” he said, managing to actually sound a little chagrined. “But speaking of which,” he continued, undaunted, “introductions.” He gestured first to Chris. “Minfilia, this is Chris Yukine, who provided a most invaluable contribution, which I’ll discuss in a moment. And Chris,” he turned to her and gestured to the woman at the desk, “it is my great pleasure to introduce to you Minfilia Warde, leader of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.”

“Well met, friend,” Minfilia said brightly.

“Yeah, same here,” Chris replied.

“Now,” Thancred said, “to the matter of my report…”

Chris listened with half an ear. Apparently, he had been investigating a string of thefts and disappearances, which were somehow connected both to each other and to Ifrit, and followed the clues to the Amalj’aa stronghold where Chris battled the primal.

“We were about to call it a loss when Ifrit apparently challenged Chris to single combat,” he concluded. “It was…” He trailed off, a faraway look in his eye. “Urianger would probably liken her final attack to an arrow from Oschon’s own bow, but I’m not sure even that does it justice.” He shook his head. “Anyroad, rescuing the captives after that was straightforward, and after seeing them safely to Camp Drybone, I made haste back here with Chris to get her properly inducted.”

“I see,” Minfilia said, then turned to Chris with a smile. “In that case, we had best give you the answers Thancred no doubt promised you.”

Chris barely restrained an exultant shout of “Finally!” letting it instead come out as a frustrated sigh.

If Minfilia was put off by her rudeness, she didn’t look it. “To begin with, we are the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, and our sole objective is to safeguard the future of Eorzea, without concern for political boundaries. Among our gravest concerns are the godlike beings known as the primals—and after your encounter with Ifrit, I’m sure you see why.”

“Not like it’s hard,” Chris said. “Giant monsters that brainwash people into worshipping them would worry anyone.”

“You’re quite correct,” Thancred said, “but you have an incomplete picture still.”

Chris turned to him, aghast. “You mean it’s  _ worse _ than that?”

“I’m afraid so,” Minfilia said, nodding sadly. “You see, the tempering process to which you and the others were subjected is doubly insidious: not only does the primal gain more followers willing to do its bidding, it also grows directly more powerful from their worship.” She paused, seemingly expecting Chris to ask a question.

When she didn’t, Thancred spoke up. “Furthermore, once summoned, primals must consume vast amounts of aether to maintain a physical form, in ever-increasing quantities as they grow stronger,” he explained. “To sate that appetite, their followers make regular offerings of the most aetherically dense objects they can find—that being crystals.”

“Which is how the thefts are related,” Chris realized.

“Exactly,” Thancred said with a nod. “But should such offerings grow sparse, as they inevitable will if a primal grows strong enough, it would not shy from draining aether from the land itself for sustenance.”

_ And since aether is basically essential for life in this world… _ Chris paled at the implications. Then blinked in another realization. “Hang on,” she said, levelling an incredulous and slightly accusing stare at Thancred, “what happened to ‘I don’t study such things’?”

Thancred was taken aback, but quickly composed himself. “I  _ don’t _ ,” he insisted. “But Urianger does, and he ensures the rest of us are knowledgeable enough on the matter.”

“That’s just arguing semantics!” Chris accused.

“Maybe so,” he conceded, “but it’s a semantic argument that means I don’t have to confess any expertise in front of someone who might make certain unfortunate assumptions from that.”

Chris’s indignant shout of  _ That’s not the point! _ was interrupted by Minfilia’s good-natured laughter. “It’s good to see you getting along already,” she said through the last of her chuckles, “but if we might return to the matter at hand?”

Chris rolled her eyes, but refocused her attention on the Antecedent. Thancred looked sheepish.

Minfilia smiled at them, but only briefly. “Chris,” she said, “that you were able to resist Ifrit’s influence means you possess a rare and special talent—a power known as the Echo.”

“The… Echo?” Chris was pretty sure she did  _ not _ have such a power, but held off on saying so. A small part of her also wondered if some strange twist of fate was responsible for her standing here instead of Hibiki.

Ignorant of her thoughts, Minfilia went on to explain that the Echo could also let one view another’s memories or circumvent language barriers—the latter reminded Chris that no one in this world was actually speaking a language she was familiar with, which shook her certainty a little, but only a little.

“But while the Echo is an extraordinary power regardless,” Minfilia continued, “the immunity to tempering it grants will be instrumental in dealing with the primal threat. Without it, we cannot hope to save the realm.” She met Chris’s eyes, determination shining in her blue depths. “I know not what it is you desire for yourself, nor what it was that first brought you to Eorzea, but I firmly believe the power we possess was given to us for a purpose. And so I implore you: lend us your power.”

The plea hung in the air. Despite everything, Chris found there was something almost comfortingly familiar about being entreated for help against nigh-insurmountable odds. “There’s really only one answer I can give to that,” she said, a smirk teasing the edges of her lips. “Count me in.”

“Then,” Minfilia said, a smile spreading across her face, “it is my great pleasure to officially welcome you as a Scion of the Seventh Dawn!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, the first arc comes to a close. After this, I'll be taking a bit of a break to plan things out a little more. The general shape of the story is already decided on, but I want to nail down a few details before I accidentally write myself into a corner.
> 
> On a related note, readers familiar with FFXIV might at this point be worried that the story will be predictable. If you're not, great! Please tell me that, because I am a bundle of anxiety and need reassurance. But if you are, let me just say this: Ichaival may be damaged now, but it will not remain so forever, and Symphogears are very much an out-of-context problem for Eorzea.
> 
> Also, I could really use someone to bounce ideas off of. I already have someone, but she doesn't know Symphogear, so her input is... of limited use on some things. AO3 doesn't have PMs that I can find, but if you're interested, you can drop me a line on [SpaceBattles](https://forums.spacebattles.com/members/gylaan.293943/) or send your preferred contact information (discord, email, etc.) to my [tumblr ask box](https://gylaan.tumblr.com/ask), which will be open to anons for a limited time.


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